


On Island Time

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: So Much Trouble [18]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, C'mon In The Water's Salty, Dominance, Each Chapter has its own tags, Eventual Smut, Islands, M/M, Nudity, Power Imbalance, Shameless Smut, Starker D/s, Submission, Well Only The One Island
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Read at your own risk.  Just going to be exploring a bunch of PWP options, don't mind me, smut smut smut.  Each chapter will have notes for which tags apply.~~~Peter tucks his head under Mr. Stark’s chin and listens to the man’s heartbeat for a moment, relaxing, and soaking up that this is really for real happening right now.  He’s fucking Tony Stark, and they’re on his private island, and unless he’s been grossly misinformed, there’s a good chance he’s going to be getting fucked soon.Pepper walks by, patting them on the back.  She announces, “Okay, I think we’ve stopped moving, Happy will toss the rest of the bags in the foyer for us, let’s go pick out our bed, gentlemen.”Tony tilts Peter’s chin up to look in his eyes and says, “Okay, we’re going to wake up and have morning sex, on my island, I deserve that, I’ve earned it, you’re going to give it to me.”Peter nods while Pepper says, her voice tinged with a not insubstantial amount of impatience, “Fine, okay, you can do that, but it’s 2 a.m. and I want to be asleep again in fifteen, so let’s go, gentlemen.  Stop hugging, start lugging.”  She gestures to the three huge suitcases set along the wall.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: So Much Trouble [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562707
Comments: 119
Kudos: 180





	1. Welcome to the Villa

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the unfatigue-able and magnificent jf4m and mindwiped, THANK YOU FOR MAKING IT ALL BETTER. All remaining formatting or other errors are mine.
> 
> NOT ENDGAME COMPLIANT. (Let's be real here, this AU is barely MCU compliant.)
> 
> Dead Dove Warning finally! Finally! We're here! Starker D/s!
> 
> For prudes, these are fictional characters and I've double checked, no one actually has a skeevy real-life relationship or prances around a private island naked 24/7 having lots of ridiculous sex* as a result of this series, so, like, relax. No one is going to get hurt. They're not real.
> 
> *... which is a damn shame, if you ask me.

Peter stirs as a hand ruffles through his hair, eyes opening, to blink against the darkness of the room. The sound of the jet engines has changed slightly. Ms. Potts moans, “Five more minutes. Ten o’clock flight, what the hell were we thinking?”

“Wake up at the Villa, fresh pineapple,” Mr. Stark reminds her, and he sounds like maybe he hasn’t slept at all. Maybe he’s just laid there, next to them, watching them sleep for the last four hours. “Anyway, you can’t have five minutes because we’ll be touching down in three.”

“Ngh,” she responds, and rubs her nose against Peter’s. He rubs back, trying to get his brain to turn over and start working. “Okay,” she concedes, and opens her eyes. She smiles at Peter, and he smiles back at her. It’s impossible not to, her cheeks are still slightly flushed with sleep and she’s wearing what Misha calls her just-for-fun makeup. Mr. Stark lifts up on one elbow to look down at the both of them.

“Cute as buttons,” Mr. Stark declares, falling back on the pillow to kiss the back of Peter’s neck where the necklace drapes. “God, I am so ready for Island time.”

“Me three,” Pepper tells him. Peter nods, because _“Me, too,”_ has been his constant refrain for the last seven days of countdown. Once they’d set a date for the flight down, he’d had a constant buzz just under his skin, which hadn’t been helped by Mr. Stark’s random grabby hands and statements like, “Get you to the Island, make you mine,” every time they bumped into each other. 

They can feel the plane land, they bounce on the bed a couple of times, and Happy’s voice comes over the PA with, “Sorry to wake you, probably should have told you to put on seatbelts.”

“Nah, we were awake,” Tony tells him, and Happy makes a disappointed noise that they probably weren’t meant to hear. They all grin at each other. Tony kisses Peter, a quick dip of _hello-you-make-me-happy_ tongue before sliding half-over him to kiss Pepper quickly, too. “Okay, pitter patter, crew,” he groans, sitting up. “Gotta get you all settled in and naked, all the time.”

Peter and Pepper groan together, but sit up and then lean together for support. Neither one says anything about the naked all the time comment. Peter’s not certain how serious Mr. Stark is being, but he’ll roll with whatever happens in either direction. He _packed clothes_. They all did, he’s seen Mr. Stark’s suitcase. But naked all the time sounds intensely freeing, too.

“Up and at ‘er,” continues Mr. Stark, standing. “Whole Villa waiting for us, the beds, Peter, you haven’t, they’re the best beds in the world. I think I still have that waterbed, even, don’t I, Pep?”

“Ugh, God, yes, you do,” groans Pepper, pulling herself to her feet. “That thing is from the 80’s, it’s a monstrosity.”

“But fun to fuck on,” Mr. Stark tells Peter. “It’s the waves.” His hands make a wave motion. “We’ll try it out, you’ll see,” he says, pulling Peter up into a tight hug. “Best toy. All my favorite things with my best toy. Perfect Peter Parker.” Peter tucks his head under Mr. Stark’s chin and listens to the man’s heartbeat for a moment, relaxing, and soaking up that this is really for real happening right now. He’s fucking _Tony Stark_ , and they’re on _his private island_ , and unless he’s been grossly misinformed, _there’s a good chance he’s going to be getting fucked soon_.

Pepper walks by, patting them on the back. She announces, “Okay, I think we’ve stopped moving, Happy will toss the rest of the bags in the foyer for us, let’s go pick out our bed, gentlemen.” 

Tony tilts Peter’s chin up to look in his eyes and says, “Okay, we’re going to wake up and have morning sex, on my island, I deserve that, I’ve earned it, you’re going to give it to me.”

Peter nods while Pepper says, her voice tinged with a not insubstantial amount of impatience, “Fine, okay, you can do that, but it’s 2 a.m. and I want to be asleep again in fifteen, so let’s go, gentlemen. Stop hugging, start lugging.” She gestures to the three huge suitcases set along the wall, taking her own and telescoping the handle.

“Pep, most important part,” Mr. Stark interrupts her. He holds out a hand and makes a grabbing motion. She sighs and says, “Okay, but Tony, did you set up the burner because if you didn’t and they need me, that’s going to ruin this, they’ll come _find_ me.” 

Peter is completely confused until she digs around in her pants and produces her Starkphone, handing it over to Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark sounds unimpressed as he reminds her, “The whole house is wired and I know Misha knows the code. Happy knows the code, every district manager knows the code, and they also know I will fire their asses if they use the code for anything other than an actual Pepper-has-to-solve-it issue. Two weeks.”

Peter feels a little alarmed and also a little like he should have seen this coming. It’s not like Mr. Stark hadn’t been dropping oblique hints to this island rule. He digs out his own phone, and says, “Three seconds, I just gotta warn people I’ll be offline,” while Mr. Stark waits. He sets up an automatic email and text reply, god he loves how StarkTech has a literal “vacation mode” button that makes those notifications _easy_. He shoots May a quick text, _No cell signal from here out for my vacation, call Happy, he has the code to get ahold of me if you need me_ , because boy would not informing _her_ be a _mistake._

“You didn’t tell him?” asks Pepper incredulously. 

Mr. Stark shrugs. “He’s mine, Pepper, if I say, ‘Gimme your phone,’ what’s he going to say? 'No?' Anyway, it’s _my_ _phone_.”

“He dropped hints,” Peter interrupts, because Mr. Stark is totally messing with Pepper and he wants them all to be sleeping in a half-hour, not delayed by fighting-as-foreplay. “I could have connected the dots, it’s not a surprise, I just didn’t _plan_ for it.”

He hands Mr. Stark his phone as Pepper blows out a breath. Mr. Stark kisses him quickly and praises him, “Good toy. Extra sex for you. Pitter patter, bed is waiting.” He opens a safe under the bed that Peter hadn’t even known was there, deposits the phones, and locks it.

He can tell Pepper is still displeased so he smiles at her brightly, grabbing the handle to his own suitcase. “I really don’t mind, Ms. Potts,” he says earnestly.

“Oh, don’t Ms. Potts me over this one,” sighs Pepper as she moves into the hallway with her luggage, leading the way. “It’s a general courtesy to tell someone you’ll be cutting them off from their loved ones, this is a complete slasher flick trope, Tony, it’s insane and I only humor you becau-”

“Because you sleep better and your health conditions disappear and you know I’m right,” Mr. Stark interrupts in a forceful tone, knocking his suitcase into Peter’s to keep Peter moving forward. 

“I don’t have any health conditions,” she spits back. Peter sighs. Fighting-as-foreplay it is, despite his best efforts.

“ _This_ time,” scoffs Mr. Stark. Pepper is descending the small flight of stairs, manhandling her suitcase and glaring at Happy, who’s offering to help and probably doesn’t deserve the glare. Well, maybe, that hadn’t been an accident with the landing, Peter concedes.

“Phones, again?” asks Happy sympathetically.

“Phones again,” hisses Pepper, tossing her hair and stalking off to the white-walled villa.

Happy falls in beside Peter with a few bags in his hand, asking, “You okay with that rule? You practically have your phone welded to your hand.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Peter tells him. “Mostly I just want to get back to sleep. Thanks for flying.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll be in the guest house if you need anything. Try not to get too sunburned, your Aunt has my personal number and she is not shy about using it.” Happy doesn’t look disturbed by this development and Peter tries hard not to panic because the goal is to be asleep within a half hour and panicking about his Aunt being able to drop kick Happy for information at any time will definitely bite into that timeline if he lets it.

“Goodnight, Happy, you can unpack later, thanks for the smooth flight,” says Mr. Stark, capturing Peter’s arm and pulling him through the doorway Pepper left open behind her.

“Goodnight, Mr. Stark,” says Happy, clearly amused. “Have fun.”

Peter only gets glimpses of the Villa’s interior rooms as he’s tugged along. It’s open and airy, everything in peaches and blues that make the place seem cool although, well, the air is hot and spicy somehow. They’re definitely not in New York anymore. There are couches and pillows in every room they pass, and beds, too, and floor cushions. It seems like a place designed for _maximum_ _relaxation_. They pass two indoor pools and climb a flight of exterior stairs, chasing Ms. Potts as she manhandles her suitcase up them, swearing under her breath. She pauses, clearly waiting for them at the top of the stairs before she declares, “Okay. Luggage here. Peter, let’s go pick out a bed.”

She captures his other hand from his suitcase handle and tugs, and Mr. Stark drops his suitcase and slides his hand down Peter’s arm to his hand, threading their fingers together and stepping forward in the direction Pepper is tugging. Pepper leads Peter to the first room on the right and he peers in, looking over her shoulder. This room is designed in a deep blue, and sure enough, there’s a huge waterbed front and center and so massive Peter’s a little shocked it’s not required to be on the ground floor. It must weigh a _ton_. “No,” vetoes Mr. Stark immediately, not even stepping into the room. “This is a sex room, I want to sleep here after having sex, but not, this can’t be our homebase, Pep.”

“Agreed,” says Pep, turning across the hall and tugging the two men after her. This room is done in gentle yellows and has a sunken bed. There are pillows _everywhere_. “Also a sex and nap room,” she muses. “No, I don’t want this one.”

Mr. Stark makes a noise of agreement and shakes Peter’s hand. “Opinion, Trouble?”

“Sounds good,” says Peter. Everything about rooms just for sex and napping sounds _amazing_ , actually. “Is, is that a drinking fountain?”

“Yeah, every room has in-suite facilities, bathrooms, little fountains, the works. There’s a little group of people who live here and maintain it all year long, one of them is a _former side project_ ,” laughs Pepper. “He fell in love with the Villa life and then argued passionately to be given the caretaker position once he met his matches, a couple of marine biologists and their boat mechanic. You won’t see them, though, we kick them out while we’re here. I think they’re tagging sea turtles this time.”

“Introduce you next time, you’ll like them,” declares Tony, and this time he’s the one leading the way out of the room. The next room makes Peter’s jaw drop because, sure, there’s a bed, but- “Playroom!” announces Tony. “Not for sleeping,” before he turns and tugs them them across the hallway. Pepper starts snorting and giggling when she catches a glimpse of Peter’s face. She swings their joined hands and says, “Stop panicking. Half of that stuff even he doesn’t know how to use.”

“Well, I know the theory on everything in there, I’m the one that kitted it out, it’s just, I like the _classics_ ,” protests Tony, turning off the lightswitch with a wave of his hand. “We’ll explore tomorrow,” he assures Peter, who doesn’t feel reassured by that statement at all.

“So much red leather,” Peter tells Pepper, and he knows his eyes are wide. 

“It’s his color,” agrees Pepper, her eyes twinkling. “Well, your color, too,” she teases. 

“Here, what about this one?” asks Mr. Stark, opening the door and tugging them through, flipping on the lightswitch. “Big bed,” he considers.

It’s a room filled with white, and Peter can tell it will be airy and bright once the sun is up. There’s a gigantic four-poster bed dripping with white curtains, and huge windows that look out onto the beach also hung with voluminous white curtains. There’s pops of blue and red and yellow color scattered throughout the room, but mostly the room is white, and gives the impression of being breezy, somehow.

“Mmm, maybe,” considers Pepper. “Early wake up in here, though. Lets in a lot of light.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Tony. “Maybe not for tonight, then.”

“Mm,” agrees Pepper. “Peter?” she asks.

“Can, can I see the rest before I decide?” asks Peter. That bed looks _great._

“Excellent plan,” agrees Mr. Stark, pulling them out of the room again. “Teal next?” he asks Pepper, who nods.

When they get to the next room, Peter can feel his eyebrows lift. Everything is sleek and shiny, in shades of blues and greens. He doesn’t have to touch the sheets to know they’re satin, they shimmer from the doorway. There’s stained glass in the window and all of the lights are covered in leaded glass, too. Mr. Stark flips on the lightswitch and Peter feels underwater. The central globe is smoothly rotating, deepening the impression of being under waves.

“Oh yeah, maximum sleepability,” sighs Pepper. “I’m doing this room like three nights in a row.”

Mr. Stark hums and says, “Peter?”

“This is so cool,” Peter tells him seriously, releasing Pepper’s hand to lift his hand and wave it in the air.

“Let’s go check out the rest, put a pin in this one for maybe tonight,” says Mr. Stark. Peter nods.

Mr. Stark tugs on his hand and Peter puts a hand back, feeling Pepper recapture it and squeeze it playfully. They cross the hall and Mr. Stark opens the door, waving at the lightswitch to turn it on. “I miss FRIDAY already,” mourns Mr. Stark. “This turning on and turning off lights is exhausting.”

“Bitch bitch,” teases Pepper, pushing Peter further into the room. It’s nice, everything looks like it was made from reclaimed driftwood, and tiny pieces of sea glass sparkle from the walls, the curtains, the chandelier, the headboard. The bed is massive and somehow, it looks lumpy and fluffy. “Oh, my God,” gasps Pepper. “I forgot about the cloud bed.”

Mr. Stark groans a little, too, saying, “Okay, he has to, Peter, you have to just lay down, there are more rooms, but you have to try this.” He’s pulling Peter to the bed as he talks, and then gestures for Peter to hop up on it.

“I can’t, I’ll fall asleep,” protests Pepper, dropping his hand and taking a cautious step back away from the bed. “Tony, the _cloud bed._ ”

“I know,” he tells her seriously, although his eyes are twinkling. “I keep meaning to get one installed at the Compound. We can all take turns, it would do amazing things for our collective blood pressure readings.”

“Mm,” moans Pepper, biting her lip. Peter climbs on the bed, and then collapses, because he’s sort of sinking into it and sort of not, just floating above it. It feels weird and, okay, he can understand why they call it a cloud bed.

“What’s this made of?” he asks them, running a hand across the blanket.

“Magic,” they reply in unison, smiling at each other. 

“It’s kinda small,” says Peter regretfully. “I mean, it’s hot, you both are furnaces, I don’t think, we’d have to be all three spooned.”

Pepper and Mr. Stark frown at this. “Oh, God,” says Pepper in a tone of regret. “He’s right. Okay, naps only. Tony, you fix that when we get back to civilization. I want cloud naps with all of us.”

“I could rig up an air conditioner,” offers Tony. Peter nods, because they can totally do that.

“Not tonight,” laughs Pepper. Peter reluctantly agrees and holds his hand out for them to pull him from the bed. 

They don’t drop his hands, and instead tug him from the room and down the hallway.

“Prince of Man next,” says Pepper, guiding them to the left. The heavy wood door opens into an opulent room, with heavy red and gold tapestries and an absolutely ridiculous bed, there’s a set of seven stairs up to it, Peter sees. He can see why Pepper calls it the Prince of Man room, that’s exactly the message it sends, there’s gold accents on literally every piece of furniture Peter can see, and the carpets on the floor look so plush and full and is that a box of furs in the corner? Yes. It’s a box of _furs_ . It looks like something out of the Game of Thrones set. There’s a huge chair, and he can’t think of any other word than _throne_ while he looks at it. It’s the perfect height for… a lot of things, thinks Peter. The room reminds him immediately of Mr. Stark by the Wakandan fires, in the heavily embroidered red silk tunic and short pants, and without thinking he tells the other man, “Oh my God, Mr. Stark, I want to _kneel_ for you here.” He doesn’t mean to say it, it just falls out, and he watches as the words shock into Mr. Stark’s imagination. 

Pepper snorts, “Okay, yes, I understand _that_ impulse, the room was designed for that, but I’m not climbing into that bed every night and you’re not living the next two weeks on your knees.”

“He can if he wants to,” argues Mr. Stark, a sly smile sliding across his face. “He’s a grown sub. How dare you limit his sexual growth and self discovery.”

“Vetoing it, I’m not climbing up on that bed every night,” laughs Pepper. “Oh, God, Peter, stop, we want to sleep, remember, stop looking at him, just, come here.” She tugs on his hand, which is clutching hers tightly, and drags them both from the room. In the hallway, Peter takes two deep breaths to _clear his head_.

“This vacation is going to be the best one ever,” announces Mr. Stark. Pepper laughs and guides them across the hallway. “Three more, Peter, and then you can help decide which one for tonight.” Peter nods, avoiding looking at Mr. Stark, avoiding looking anywhere, he just- that room was just… his reactions are just so _weird_ sometimes, but sometimes it’s weirder that Mr. Stark reacts, _too_ , makes it hard for Peter to remember that he’s not normal.

“Oh, this is new,” says Mr. Stark, when the light flips on. 

“Oh, right, Tyler told me, I wanted to see it,” says Pepper, tugging them further in. The room is yellows and greens, calm and soothing, and completely open along one side, letting in the sound of the waves crashing. Peter can see the screen that prevents bugs from entering, with a built in door at one side. He has to turn to look behind them at the bed, which is slung low to the ground and built on the same huge scale as most of them have been. There’s nothing remarkable about it, but the sound of the waves is hypnotizing, the longer he looks at the bed.

“I like it. The drop down wall works perfectly, you can’t even see the storm shield tucked up there from here. I love the _access_ ,” declares Mr. Stark. “And I see he got a bed big enough for his entire harem. Good boy.”

“It’s a reverse harem,” laughs Pepper. “Three sultans and one devoted slave.”

“Oh, is this their room?” asks Peter, feeling weird and invasive suddenly.

“Not for the next two weeks,” Mr. Stark tells him firmly. “I’m sure they switch around as much as we’re going to. Tyler just wanted one that was completely open to the sea noises. They spend a lot of time out on the boat, I know that captain of his has trouble sleeping on land.”

“It was a really kind project,” agrees Pepper. “And it’s turned out lovely. I wouldn’t mind a night or six here, listen to the _surf_.”

“Yeah, this or the underwater one, or the white one,” says Mr. Stark, “That right, Peter?”

Peter nods.

“Two more,” Mr. Stark reminds him cheerfully.

Pepper says, “We can show him the treehouse, but I’m not doing it. That’s all you boys.”

Mr. Stark pretends to pout, shoving open the door and pulling Peter in after him. Pepper trails behind, clearly not eager for this one.

Peter’s mouth drops open as his eyes adjust to the dim lights scattered around the room. “Mr. Stark, this is _insane_ ,” he gasps. There’s ropes and rough poles and nets everywhere, interspersed with huge thick leaves and flowers. The walls are covered in ivy, or something, and the bed itself is up a ladder, lofted in the center of the room. It looks like it was designed to swing, thinks Peter wildly, and that is the craziest thing until he realizes there are three other beds tucked around the ceiling, and the only way he can see to get to them is to climb the main bed and swing out onto the rope ladders between them. This is the biggest room yet, there are stairs down to the floor of it, and it’s absolutely insane.

“Yeah, this one came with the Villa,” Mr. Stark tells him, smugly. “A real selling point. I always wanted to grow up to live in a tree house.”

“Not doing it,” Pepper reminds them both. Mr. Stark and Peter smile at each other and Peter says, “Oh, I’ll do it, one night, _please_ _Mr. Stark_ , you have a _tree fort room._ ”

“Yes,” teases Mr. Stark, “You can be Jane, I’ll be Tarzan, it’ll be fun.”

“I’ll be Jim Hawkins and you can be John Silver,” argues Peter. Mr. Stark’s eyes light up and Pepper laughs, tugging them from the room.

“You two are adorable,” she says fondly. “One last one and then decision time.”

They step into the next room and Peter gets vertigo. “Oh, the mirrors,” says Pepper in a tone of mild disgust. “I always forget this one is mirrors, let’s not, Tony.”

“Let Peter get a look, at least,” Tony tells her, tugging Peter further in. Pepper releases his hand as Mr. Stark puts his hands up on Peter’s shoulders and pushes him toward the foot of the bed. There’s a circular mirror on the ceiling above the circular bed and along the wall opposite the door. Mr. Stark’s voice drops as he murmurs in Peter’s ear, “Can’t enjoy the mirrors while you’re sleeping, Trouble. This one’s more for hard work and then collapsing a little.”

Peter flushes and Mr. Stark licks a line up to his ear, to nibble, the necklace caught by his tongue.

“Okay, don’t start up, god, this honeymoon phase,” complains Pepper mildly, reaching for Peter’s empty hand and tugging him towards the hallway again. He glances back at his reflection in the far wall and then they’re back in the hallway, Mr. Stark shutting the door.

“Okay, so, underwater, white, or surfside,” lists Mr. Stark, capturing Peter’s empty hand and swinging it a little.

“I vote underwater for tonight, and either white or surfside for permanent residency,” says Pepper.

“Peter?” asks Mr. Stark.

Peter shifts a little uncomfortably, but he promised Mr. Stark _honesty,_ and that includes even when it makes him feel like an idiot. “I don’t want surfside, not, it just felt weird right now, maybe later. And I think we all want to sleep in. Underwater for tonight?”

Mr. Stark nods and says, “Satin sheets it is. You go get undressed, I’ll grab the luggage and shove it in the white room.”

“Well, that answers the question of base camp,” laughs Pepper, but she doesn’t sound unhappy with the decision. “C’mon, Peter, let’s go get undressed for the boss.”

Peter realizes he’s never actually, he’s been naked around _her_ but she’s never- and he gulps as she tugs him along down the hallway.

“Want to drive him a little nuts?” asks Pepper in a quiet voice as they enter the room. “Okay, wait, first off, he’s not going to make you be naked all week, especially if you don’t want to be. Given the loincloth in Wakanda, I’m guessing you’re pretty comfortable in your own skin, though, and it’s fun, Peter, _fun_ to be warm all the time and to feel so free. But you _don’t have to_.”

Peter nods, and takes a deep breath. _Okay._ That’s actually kind of a relief, knowing that he has the choice, even if he _knew_ that he’d have a choice. It’s relieving to _hear_ it. “How do we drive him nuts?” 

“You get naked, then as he comes in, help me undress,” she says, her tone teasing and playful.

Peter feels a sly smile bloom on his face. Yeah, given when he knows about Mr. Stark, that’d push a couple buttons. 

“Here, I’ll help you, and then you can tell him in all honesty you’re just returning the favor,” she says, and he laughs because however long it’s taking Mr. Stark to shove those suitcases in the white room, it’s going to be fun getting caught doing this. She tugs up his shirt, and it feels strange, because when Mr. Stark takes off his clothes, it feels intense and obviously sexual. The only other person to help him strip is Aunt May, and when she helped him take off shirts, back when he was a kid, her hand felt familiar and comforting and calming. Pepper falls somewhere between the two, and it’s disconcerting. She takes the shirt to the bathroom and he follows her, noting the hamper, the toilet, and the sink. “No shower?” he asks. 

“No need,” she shrugs, “there’s entire _rooms_ full of showers downstairs.”

“Ah,” he says, kicking off his shoes. She kneels and peels down his socks, which, again, feels strange and just this side of awkward. She smiles up at him and tugs on the leg of his jeans. “Unbutton, Peter, slide ‘em down.”

Okay, now there’s a little heat, he realizes. _Jesus_. He’s definitely blushing. There’s a woman on her knees in front of him, and she’s tugging his pants down, he’s _blushing_ , okay? He unbuttons his jeans and lets them drop into her hands, shaking his hips once when they get stuck.

She stands up and slides his boxers off his hips, down his butt. He shivers a little, although the room is roasting, even compared to the heat Mr. Stark maintains in the Tower. “Easy,” she murmurs. “I got you. Just for Mr. Stark, right? He gets what he wants?”

Peter nods as the boxers pool on the floor. He shivers again, feeling so exposed, so naked, but he doesn’t hate it, not even a little bit.

“You gonna leave them there, Peter?” she teases, running a hand through his hair gently. He feels so _naked_ , and he remembers how she’d said she loved touching him.

He shakes his head and leans down to pick them up and toss them in the hamper.

“Okay,” she says brightly, “Now me, come here, in the bedroom, by the bed. You can carry them to the hamper when we’re done.”

Her shirt is off, thrown on a nearby chair, and Peter is unbuckling the latch of her pants when Mr. Stark walks in. He stops, all of his infamous motion suspended as he catches his first glimpse of them, and Peter has to bite back a smile. He glances up at Pepper, who is absolutely blazing with mirth, and loses his control, venting a hissing giggle as he slides her pants down, ending on his knees looking up at her. She steps out of the pants delicately, and he can see her stomach quiver with the laughter she’s holding back, her hair a flame screen hiding her face from Mr. Stark.

“What-what are you _doing?”_ asks Mr. Stark plaintively.

“She helped me,” Peter says, looking up in to her laughing eyes, because he’s been told his lines, “I’m just returning the favor.” He skims his hands up her calves and strips off her socks, slowly, one at a time, throwing them to land on the pile on the chair with the pants.

Mr. Stark makes a wounded noise as Peter kneels and reaches up to touch the upper edge of Pepper’s cream-colored lace panties. Pepper puts a single finger under his chin, pushing his head back, and Mr. Stark growls wordlessly as Peter complies, baring his throat to her. She holds him there, for several heartbeats. They are both barely touching each other, fingertips just grazing the skin. She winks at him and he breathes frantically back up at her, remembering their dance in Wakanda under the stars. She nods and says, “Go ahead, Peter.”

He strips her panties off quickly, one smooth motion, and she delicately shifts her weight from foot to foot to let him throw them on the chair. “Up, Peter,” she says, and then continues, “Have you ever even unlatched a bra before?”

Peter rises as gracefully as he can. He’s getting pretty good at it, Mr. Stark is always shoving him down and then demanding that he stand again. He shakes his head and says, “No, but I’m half-way through an engineering degree, I bet I can figure it out.”

Mr. Stark growls, rushing into the room to bat Peter’s hands aside. “Like hell, _fuck_ , kid, Pep, you are _evil_ , how’m I supposed to sleep after that?”

Pepper loses it laughing, and Peter does, too. “Ganging up on me, I thought we talked about that, there will be no ganging up on me,” Mr. Stark announces. Or, well, re-announces. The first few times haven’t stuck, after all. “Okay, this is how you snap a bra off, pay attention,” he says, sliding one hand around Pepper’s torso and grabbing Peter’s chin with the other one, directing him to watch over Pepper’s shoulder. “Like, _this_ ,” he says and his clever fingers pop the catch. He immediately dives into a kiss with Pepper, sliding it down off of her shoulders and releasing Peter’s chin to get it down the arms. Pepper makes a satisfied noise into the kiss, and then puts one hand on his chest to push him away, gasping, “Okay, no, we are heading to bed, Mr. Stark. It’s your turn.” 

She winks at Peter, who drops back down to his knees, why he even listened to her and stood up is beyond him. Mr. Stark immediately threads his fingers through Peter’s hair, tugging lightly. Pepper is working on Mr. Stark’s _reassuring-the-investors_ shirt, popping the buttons one by one, while Peter works at the belt and the fasteners beneath it. It’s something of a race, but Peter has the upperhand because he slides his fingers under Mr. Stark’s boxers at the same time, and in one smooth motion, one he’s definitely been practicing these past few months, he drops both items of clothing. He hooks the socks down, too, and waits for Mr. Stark to lift first one foot and then the other to brush the pants and boxers aside on the floor. Pepper is working on one wrist, so Peter reaches up and starts unbuttoning the wrist just above his head. Mr. Stark’s fingers clench and unclench in his hair, it’s great, he loves it, loves that they can have such an effect on him.

“Teamwork,” teases Pepper, as she strips off the shirt and lets it fall, “makes the dream work.”

There’s just so much skin right now, Peter thinks in a daze. There’s only one stitch of clothing, it’s Mr. Stark’s t-shirt, and then they’ll all be naked, for _weeks_. How is this his life?

“Oh my God, I love naked day,” sighs Mr. Stark, rolling his shoulders and lifting the t-shirt off of his torso.

“I know,” Pepper replies fondly. “Okay, Peter, you take care of the clothes and then come to bed, lights out in three.”

Mr. Stark sits on the edge of the bed as Pepper wanders over to her side, stripping off her jewelry and putting it on the side table. She’s always on the left in the Stark Suite beds, Peter realizes for the first time, standing and gathering the clothes, heading to the bathroom. He and Mr. Stark are always on the right. They already have regular sides of the bed, and for some reason, that’s really important right now.

He dumps the clothes and heads back. It’s weird to see Pepper lying there without a phone or tablet, Mr. Stark without three screens open in front of him. Weird and wild to think there won’t be any distractions from each other for two weeks. Mr. Stark makes grabby hands at him, and then lifts him over to land in the middle between them. He slides in behind Peter and pulls Peter back to meet him. There’s just so much skin, thinks Peter in a daze, although this isn’t the first time they’ve ever cuddled nakedly together.

Mr. Stark nuzzles at his neck and says, “Okay, sleep, gonna destroy you in the morning, Trouble.”

“Or the afternoon, jet lag,” agrees Pepper, already yawning. 

“Okay,” says Peter, because he can’t think of anything else to say. _Okay._ Pepper claps and the lights turn off. Peter snorts because that’s hilarious, this room has a _clapper_ , that’s so _1978_. Mr. Stark pulls him tighter, and Peter feels his chest relax in the warmth of the furnace that is Mr. Stark.

The sound of the surf isn’t as loud here, but it’s still there, and Peter lets it lull him to sleep in Mr. Stark’s arms. They’re here. They made it. He’s going to get destroyed in the morning.


	2. The White Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destruction in the White Suite includes: Anal sex. First time sex. Losing virginity. Fluff. D/s overtones.

Peter doesn’t know what wakes him first, but the room is still dim and dark, the most light coming in through the crack at the door. Mr. Stark’s hand is cupping his morning wood, and he can feel Mr. Stark’s twitch behind him. “Shh,” whispers Mr. Stark, directly into his ear. “Here, let her sleep, let’s go next door.”

They sneak out of the bed and pad with silent feet to the hallway, where Mr. Stark gently closes the door and directs Peter to the white room next door. His hands fly to Peter’s back, rubbing gently as he opens the door and lets them both in. Mr. Stark closes the door firmly behind them, and then grabs Peter for a long kiss.

Eventually it breaks and Mr. Stark says, “Okay, Trouble. I’ve got big plans. Come here,” and he drags Peter towards the bathroom.

“I’m going to fuck you, right now,” he tells Peter, in a tone that’s savage and possessive and somehow still just coldly informative, and Peter takes in a deep breath, nerves suddenly alight. “And you’re going to let me, aren’t you, Trouble?”

Peter nods, _yes, yes of course._

“Okay, no, we’re not starting with that, _words_ , _Peter,_ ” corrects Mr. Stark sharply. 

“Yes, yes, green, yes,” babbles Peter. It’s not possible to be more green, his skin has lit on fire with want.

“Okay, good,” breathes Mr. Stark, like he was actually waiting for Peter’s permission to get started. He tilts Peter’s face up and says, “So there’s a thing, it works sometimes, makes you less worried about the fact that it’s your butt I’m going to be fucking. I’d like to try it for this time, and if you hate it, we’ll never do it again, and if you love it, we can do it every time, I don’t care, but it works, makes you less nervous about, well, cleanliness.”

Peter bites his lip and tilts his head, curious, his eyes sharp on Mr. Stark’s face. “Okay,” he says, as Mr. Stark clearly is waiting for verbal responses from him this morning.

“Okay, sit here, on the toilet,” says Mr. Stark. “Let me just-” he grabs a thin flexible tube off of the wall, which has a tiny nozzle that makes Peter swallow nervously. He smears something from a tube all over it as he talks, and if that’s not _ominous_ , Peter doesn’t know what is. “Okay, so this goes in you, and then we pump you full of water, clean you out, it’s going to feel weird, but I promise, Peter, it’ll help you focus on the right sensations when we’re in the act. Do you trust me?”

Peter laughs and says, “It’s an enema, Mr. Stark. I know what an enema is. Aunt May is a nurse. Well, was a nurse. Once, only did it a couple of years, she hated it.” He’s babbling now, he knows, but this is _weird_. “Yeah, go ahead,” he says, with a confidence he doesn’t exactly feel. “I trust you.” He _was_ worried about the whole, you know, butt part of the butt sex. This, well, it’s unexpected and weird but at least he won’t then be worried about it.

“Okay, kid, just, it’s going to feel weird, but I promise it will help later on.” Peter bites his lip and nods. “Promise, Peter,” Mr. Stark says again, leaning over him, and then Peter can feel the tip of the nozzle, wet with lube, against the muscle of his anus and tries to think calming thoughts as it inserts. 

There’s, it’s such a weird feeling, as Mr. Stark turns on the hose. He can feel the water slosh through him and Mr. Stark puts a steadying hand on his stomach, rubbing gently and murmuring, “It’s okay, Peter, promise, if you hate it we’re never doing it again, we can stop now if we need to.”

Peter shakes his head. It’s completely weird, but it’s not, like, painful or anything. He’s just starting to feel pressure, and fullness, when Mr. Stark turns the water off and says, “Okay, now you just, you just tug on this when I leave, let me know when you’re ready again, okay? If you hate it, never doing it again,” he reassures Peter. Peter shrugs.

Mr. Stark leaves the room, and Peter tugs, and, yes, okay, it’s gross, but it’s not, like, _the worst_. He feels… empty… when he’s done, like he’s been kind of scoured clean. It feels… nice? Kind of? He washes the nozzle and his hands in the sink and realizes his legs are kind of unsteady.

“You okay?” calls Mr. Stark and Peter watches himself in the mirror as he says back, “Yeah, c’mon in again, I think I’m done.”

Mr. Stark enters and breathes a deep breath. “Okay, that’s done. Good. Shaky on your pins? That can happen. Here, I grabbed some food from the kitchen, protein bars, that kind of thing. Eat up.” They both grab a bar from the bedside table and Peter can’t get over how his insides feel, uh, _fresh_ as he settles on the side of the bed, feet dangling. It’s a taller bed than his one in either bedroom in the States. Not steps tall, but still, tall enough that his feet don’t touch the ground. The bar is pretty good, so he has another one, slumping a little against Mr. Stark’s bulk as the shakiness subsides.

“All better? Got enough energy in you to get started?” asks Mr. Stark. “Go pee,” he commands suddenly. “Gonna introduce you to your prostate, don’t want you worrying about anything but how good it feels.”

Peter rolls his eyes and hops down from the bed, back to the bathroom. He washes his hands again and when he exits, he glances up at Mr. Stark and freezes. 

Mr. Stark is sitting on the edge of the bed, naked body on full display in the intense white light that glows through the room. He looks like a marble statue, Zeus or Apollo or Hercules. Some mythical being, all corded muscles and hard angles, _power_ _personified_ , anyway. He’s staring at Peter with dark eyes, eyes Peter recognizes from a hundred bedroom hours. He lifts his hand and gestures Peter to come closer, and Peter is drawn forward, mouth dry. “Hi, Peter,” he says gently, tilting Peter’s face back in his hand for a kiss. 

“M-Mr. Stark,” greets Peter into the kiss.

“Good boy,” praises Mr. Stark, his eyes flashing a little, watching Peter for reactions as his hands thread through Peter’s hair and trace the necklace at Peter’s neck. “You feeling eager to get started?”

Peter nods, feeling the hair of his scalp pulled tight in Mr. Stark’s grip. 

“Good, me too. Gonna destroy you, toy. Gonna have to rebuild you when I’m done.” His tone is slow and thick with desire. Peter feels his eyes already fluttering shut, just a little, as Mr. Stark presses eager kisses to his neck. His dick twitches as Mr. Stark’s kisses turn into gnawing at his necklace. He gasps, “Mr. Stark, can I get up there with you already?” and loves when it makes Mr. Stark laugh.

“Eager toy,” teases Mr. Stark, hauling him up beside him on the bed. “So slutty, love it, never change.”

Peter nods. Easy promise.

“God, I love living on island time, and all this easy access,” Mr. Stark says, sliding a hand around the shaft of Peter’s cock and flicking the head. Peter falls back on the bed with a groan and mumbles, “Do me,” just to make Mr. Stark laugh again.

“Oh, kid, you got no idea. I’m guessing you’ll be so fucking responsive, I’m guessing I can milk you through a p-orgasm, untouched, there’s been so much guessing I’ve been doing and no data, it’s driving me nuts,” Mr. Stark muses, stroking Peter just right. “You’re going to love your prostate, Peter, I can tell, you already get off on this-” he rubs a finger against the skin just below Peter’s balls in a move Peter has _memorized_. It makes him moan and twitch, and Mr. Stark is smiling as he says, “The interior side of the button is like that but more intense. I may create a monster today,” he muses, but he doesn’t look daunted. He looks thrilled at the prospect. He’s looking at his own hands, Peter realizes, when he mutters, “No hangnails, everything filed, yeah, we’re ready.”

Mr. Stark pushes Peter up to rest in the pillows. “For the actual fucking, do you want to be able to look at me, or do you think, too intense? It’s not the easiest angle but you’re so fucking flexible, we can make it work.”

Peter shrugs. “I like looking at you,” he says honestly, shivering, because it’s true. He loves looking at Mr. Stark.

“Okay, sounds good,” says Mr. Stark, reaching for the headboard. There’s a pumping noise and Peter laughs, “Oh my God, does every single bed you own have a lube pump, Mr. Stark?”

“Easy access is important to me, Peter,” Mr. Stark chides him seriously. “Always prepared, and they’re not hard to install, honestly not sure why every bed doesn’t have one.”

Peter is laughing as Mr. Stark slides between his knees and kisses him until he’s gasping and thrusting up against all that skin. “M-Mr. Stark,” he whispers.

“Yeah, perfect Peter, I’ve got you, I know what you need,” Mr. Stark murmurs back, and Peter feels a wet finger press against his hole, the same sensation as the nozzle earlier but so much less clinical. “Just relax,” Mr. Stark tells him. “Just relax and breathe.”

Peter breathes as the finger breeches past the muscle, the first finger ever, the first, because he’s not counting Mai Pa, this is, this is _not that_. It feels so different, Mr. Stark’s finger is so different, so big, so very much bigger. He didn’t expect it to be so tight, how the hell is he going to fit Mr. Stark’s dick up there? He panics a little, for the first time, because just the finger feels like so much, what was he thinking, how do people _do this_ all the time?

“Shh, Peter, just breathe,” Mr. Stark instructs him. “I promise, I can make this so good for you, just trust me and breathe for me. I just gotta find, oh-” Peter jolts, shocked, because that felt so _good_. His eyes fly open and he pants up at Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark is smirking as he wiggles his finger to make the jolt happen again and says, “Peter, your prostate. Feel good?” He’s rubbing circles against the spot, small little circles, the skin of his finger dragging along it, and Peter is gasping for air, tossing his head, within moments. 

He has no idea how long he lays there, gasping and jumping, while Mr. Stark’s finger shifts and presses and caresses him on the inside.

“Yeah, you’re going to be fun,” Mr. Stark comments smugly at one point. “God, I thought you’d be such a slut for this when we finally busted this cherry, and I was right, 15 points to Gryffindor.”

“Slytherin,” corrects Peter, gasping as Mr. Stark switches to pressing the muscle in a pulsing pattern.

“Red and gold are my colors,” Mr. Stark informs him, eyes alight at the way Peter is writhing for him. Peter can’t help it, it feels so good, he has to twist back on the finger, but then he has to thrust up, it feels _so good._

“Evil,” gasps Peter.

“Ambitious,” corrects Mr. Stark, “and that’s admirable but not my thing. I’m brave and daring, and definitely Gryffindor.”

“Evil,” argues Peter in a quiet shout, hips knifing up off the sheets altogether as Mr. Stark rubs back and forth on his prostate viciously. “S-stop, God, s-stop.”

“Nope,” says Mr. Stark smugly. “Gonna make sure you get real acquainted and are feeling friendly.”

Peter thrusts up several times in quick succession at these words, and begins to hiss through his clenched teeth, “Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, _please_.”

“I bet we can get you actively milking, Trouble,” says Mr. Stark conversationally. “I bet I don’t even have to- hips _down_ , toy- work that hard.”

Peter grunts and presses his hips back on the bed, which just makes him toss his head and clutch at the sheets. With his hips pressed like this, he’s absolutely helpless against Mr. Stark’s finger. The man lines up another slicked finger and presses it inside and Peter moans, because if one felt so good, two is exponentially better. One is always touching his prostate, setting off sparks. They’re actively stretching, now, he can feel it, the burn as one presses into his prostate and the other pulls out.

“Yup,” says Mr. Stark, and his voice at least sounds a little strained, so there’s that, thinks Peter blearily, “Look at this, self-lubing.” His other hand presses wet patterns across Peter’s stomach and he opens his eyes. Mr. Stark is playing with a thin milky liquid that’s dripping out of the slit of Peter’s cock. “Knew you’d be such a slut for this,” Mr. Stark tells him, catching his eye, voice dark and deep and serious. “Knew you’d like it, want to play this way, want to hear you say it, tell me, Trouble.”

“God, yes, Mr. Stark,” gasps Peter. “God, yes, please, don’t, don’t stop, feels so, God, fuck, so good. Please don’t stop, please, just keep, I want, it’s so so so good, feels so good, please.” He’s babbling but he’s watching Mr. Stark’s eyes and every word is hitting hard, he can tell, the man’s jaw has dropped a little and his breathing is messed up. 

Mr. Stark pants as he lowers a third finger, teasing the edge of Peter’s hole, and mutters, “God, kid, keep talking, tell me how much you want this, and maybe I’ll give it to you.”

Peter wants that finger, wants it in, wants more, this is, he feels, it’s so much, it’s amazing, his cock is leaking so much, he didn’t know, it feels, “Please,” he gasps, pushing back, seeking it with his hips, “Please, oh, God, Mr. Stark, I want it, please in, want you in, want, _fuck_ , give it to me, please.”

“Well,” drawls Mr. Stark. “Since you begged so nicely,” and lets the third finger breech Peter’s rim of muscle. 

Everything is so _tight,_ wonders Peter. It’s so _tight_ , and he’s leaking, it’s so much. 

“Want you to come just like this, toy,” Mr. Stark growls, “You can do it, I know you can, look at how you’re milking, I bet you don’t even, p-spot orgasms are the best, give me this one, give me this one, Peter.”

Peter shakes his head and he knows he’s leaking tears, _fuck_ , he’s so glad that’s not a mood killer for Mr. Stark because fuck if he can control it. He’s gasping, chest heaving, and it’s all he can do not to snap his hips up and fuck the air, this is impossible, this feels _so good._ “Beg,” says Mr. Stark. “Beg for it, Peter, tell me how much you want to come, beg me.”

“Oh, God, Mr. Stark,” gasps Peter. “Fuck, Jesus, fuck, please let me come, please, please let me come, I want to, just like this, just like this, feels so good, please.” He’s babbling again, but he knows Mr. Stark doesn’t actually pay attention to the words, it’s the desperation that drives the man’s attention to focus in like a razor against Peter’s skin. Mr. Stark kisses one of Peter’s knees, resting his head there for a moment before _twisting_ his _fucking_ fingers inside Peter. Peter can’t hold them anymore, his hips jacknife off the bed, bucking wildly, and Mr. Stark’s hand flies up with them, pressing in, shifting.

“Fuck, you’re such a slut, yes, Trouble, c’mon, give me what I want, come like this, just like this, on my fucking fingers, gonna slide my dick in there next, fuck you for as long as I want, as hard as I’ve wanted to, _fuck_ , but come for me first, little toy, show me how much you want me in,” coaxes Mr. Stark, and that’s it, Peter’s _lost it_. He starts shaking, heaving huge gasps of air, and then abruptly everything goes taut and every muscle tightens in his body, as the orgasm rips through him. 

Mr. Stark is soothing, “Good boy, good toy, shhhh,” as Peter gasps for air, his fingers stretching and twisting in Peter’s hole. He adds more lube, cupped in his other hand, and Peter whimpers at the momentary coldness. “Here, gonna use all that lube you just made, good toy,” teases Mr. Stark, sliding two fingers through the mess on Peter’s chest and scooping up a fair amount. He deposits it on the hand _still in Peter’s ass_ , and Peter can feel the warmth of that liquid seep in, too. “God, so wet, you’re going to feel fantastic against my dick,” Mr. Stark informs him with a smirk. Peter moans, nerves stretched tight. 

“Shh, come down from it, Peter, just, relax,” soothes Mr. Stark. “Don’t want you overdone for this next part, want you here with me. Just breathe and relax, come down from it, good boy, Shh.”

Peter can feel the tension in his limbs unwind. He shakes a couple of times and Mr. Stark smirks, “Aftershock, toy, just aftershocks, the quake is over, just relax and ride it.”

Mr. Stark waits until his breathing has slowed and his heart isn’t hammering to twitch his fingers again. Peter shifts, moaning, and Mr. Stark says, “God, change my mind, gonna wire this place for FRIDAY this year, need that as my ringtone, _fuck_ , Trouble. Need in you so bad, here, lift your hips for me.” He slides a pillow under Peter’s hips and then rolls forward. “You ready to let me in? Ready to give me what I want?”

Peter nods frantically because he’s _so_ _ready_. Mr. Stark frowns after a second and reminds him, “Pretty sure I said I wanted to hear it.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” swears Peter, comprehensively and passionately, “ _please, Mr. Stark,_ I need you, been waiting so long, please, please, want to feel you, want you inside me, I’m ready, I swear to God I’ve been ready, do it, _please.”_

Mr. Stark smiles, and crouches forward on his knees. “I love that I can bareback you for our first time,” he tells Peter. “You’re such a slut, you know that, right?”

“Please, now,” begs Peter, shifting his hips up, pressing back on Mr. Stark’s fingers. Mr. Stark shoves Peter’s knees up to his chest in a sudden quick motion, and then slides his torso between them, saying, “Okay, you convinced me, let’s go, let’s do this now.” Peter gasps a huge deep breath and nods, his body arching up to touch as much of Mr. Stark as he can.

Mr. Stark kisses him, filthy with tongue and teeth, and Peter would hyperventilate as he feels Mr. Stark’s fingers slip out, but then the head of the man’s cock pushes in and Peter’s not breathing at all. 

It’s not, there’s no mistaking it for anything else, it’s a _cock_ , pressing _in_ , it’s Mr. Stark’s cock, pressing in to him, and he groans because it’s such a _sensation_.

When it hits his prostate for the first time, he gasps, eyes flying wide to stare up into the other man’s, “Do that, oh God, _Tony_ , please, do that.” Tony twitches, at the name change, at the way he’s destroying Peter, at the feel of Peter rocking back on his dick, Peter doesn’t know and doesn’t _care._

Tony nods, brow furrowed, and pulls out, only to push back in, a short jerk that leaves Peter gasping, “God, God, yes, please, _Tony_.”

They’re both covered in a layer of sweat, but Tony is panting hard, teeth a little gritted as he slowly inches back and forth inside Peter, nailing his prostate as much as possible, pushing in so slowly, by tiny degrees, that Peter’s entire body is aching for it to just be shoved in already. He can’t communicate his welcome, though, because _he can’t breathe._

“Shh,” soothes Tony, hands coming up to cup Peter’s face. “Christ, kid, you feel amazing, let it happen, shhh.” His hips twitch forward the last half inch and then stutter there, and Peter draws in a deep breath on a laugh. “ _Fuck me,”_ he begs, “Please, Tony, Mr. Stark, _move_ , fuck me, please, please, God, _move_.”

Tony looks down at him and smiles, elated. “Knew you’d love this, perfect Peter Parker.” He kisses Peter, long and slow, and that’s _nice_ , but Peter has _other priorities_ right now. He rocks back against Tony’s dick, trying to get some movement against his prostate, and Tony breaks the kiss with a shaky laugh. “Okay, I get it, _fuck_ you, you’re such a _slut_ , no romance.”

Peter nods frantically and says, “Fuck me, please, c’mon, _move_ , please, _Tony_.”

Tony is still laughing and panting when he does, he draws out, one long slide against Peter’s prostate that has him gasping, and another slow smooth press in against it. Peter’s not complaining but, “God, yes,” he hisses, tossing his head, “God, more, Tony, more, please.”

“Fuck, such a slut,” groans Tony, but his hips oblige Peter by snapping in a little faster, the sensation making Peter’s head fall back and his hands twist in the sheets. “Like that?” Tony asks him, teasing. “Want it like that, Peter Parker?”

Peter nods frantically because he’ll take this any way he can get it but _Jesus Christ_ like that is _great_.

Tony laughs a little, but it sounds so strained, and Peter’s glad to hear this is affecting the other man, too. Tony’s hips are snapping forward in small thrusts and Peter can feel everything so much, feel the slide of skin on skin _inside_ him.

Peter decides he’s never leaving this bed, he’s always, always going to just lie here, just like this, God, just like this, take it, feel Tony inside him, just fucking _like this_ forever, and it’s not until Tony starts chuckling that he realizes he’s saying the words out loud.

“Fuck, Trouble,” gasps Tony, his hips snapping forward with precision still, his eyes darkening in ways Peter’s never seen them do before, must be the light in the room, the light that makes everything feel pure and bright, “fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop talking, keep going, so close, gonna.”

“Feel so good,” moans Peter, and Tony grunts, nodding frantically, “Tony, please, please, I need, it feels so good. Need more, need you, fuck, Tony, give it to me, make me, God, gonna-”

“Give it to me,” growls Tony, leaning down and kissing Peter, hips snapping with force at the angle change. Peter gasps into the kiss and Tony snaps, “Give it to me, know you want to, can hear it in your voice, you’re ready, such a fucking slut, you give it to me.”

Peter gasps, and then arches his back, making Tony gasp, as he comes between them. Tony growls once, one long and feral noise, and then snaps his hips in quick succession and Peter is shocked to realize he can feel the other man come in pulses inside him, dick twitching inside him, against Peter’s prostate.

Tony is shaking, above him, nipping at his lips in a daze, and Peter realizes with a feeling of deep confusion that the other man is holding himself up not to crush Peter. Peter tilts his hips and slides his knees down, and pulls on Tony’s arms to get him to work with the program, here. Tony gasps and collapses down on Peter, and Peter clings to him, rubbing his hands along Tony’s back, and chants softly, “Want you here, want to feel you, want you here.”

They lay like that for a long time, long enough that Peter can feel the butterfly wing twitches of Tony softening, and slipping out, long enough for him to feel distinctly unclean as some cum leaks just behind it. Long enough for Peter’s heart to stop racing and Tony’s breathing to return to normal. Long enough for Tony to finally raise his head, kiss Peter gently, and inquire, “You good? You green?”

Peter nods back, kissing Tony again, and says, “So green. You can do that again, anytime, promise, feel amazing.”

Tony nods, and blows out a breath and says, “Go team.”

Peter laughs, raising a still trembling hand to press back Tony’s hair, to _touch_. Tony twists his head and kisses the palm of Peter’s hand, and laughs, himself. “Trouble, you have no idea how much time I spent hoping you’d say exactly that.”

“Were you nervous?” asks Peter, because that’s a revelation.

“Little bit,” admits Tony, his eyes twinkling. “Wanted to make sure I did it right the first time, so you’d let me do it again.”

“As many times as you want, sir,” Peter promises him, because he’s pretty sure there’s never been a doubt in his mind about that fact.

“Oh, Trouble,” laughs Tony, pecking his lips with kisses. “Oh, Trouble. Careful what you wish for.”

“I want it,” Peter tells him, teasing, leaning up, pressing up into the kisses. “And I get what I want.”

“Such a slut,” agrees Tony. “Okay, recess, fifteen minutes, need a nap.” He slides off of Peter and pads to the bathroom, returning with a washcloth that he swipes down Peter’s stomach and sides, scrubbing at Peter’s ass a bit more gently. “Clean enough for a nap?” he asks, tossing the washcloth in the hamper.

Peter makes a satisfied noise and then holds out grabby hands. Tony laughs. “Okay, yes, Trouble, impatient, insatiable Trouble.”

“Insanely hot, you forgot, Mr. Stark,” teases Peter.

“Insanely hot, yes,” agrees Mr. Stark, climbing into the bed and spooning up behind Peter, who rolls over eagerly. “Insanely hot with all access,” he adds, sliding his habitual hand around Peter’s frame, pulling up the air-light covers to drape around them.

Peter sighs, “Yesss.”

“Such a fucking slut, Trouble,” chuckles Mr. Stark, nuzzling his hair. 

“Just for you,” Peter argues, but he’s tired again, now that it’s done, now that he never has to worry about it ever again, a huge weight lifted off his shoulders, they’ve _fucked_ , now, and it was _awesome_.

“Take a nap,” orders Mr. Stark. “Be right here, we can go again when we’re up.”

Peter nods weakly, pressing back into Mr. Stark’s warmth. “Anytime,” he says, and Mr. Stark replies, “So good for my ego, no idea, Trouble. Now shh.”

Peter nods again, just a twitch of his head against the pillow, and lets sleep crash over him, sleep and a deep sense of well being.


	3. Seaside Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hm. Tags for this one: Orgasm denial/delay, blowjob, M/F, voyeurism, exhibitionism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For every single commentator who wanted more Pepper interactions, more Pepper in the Starker I set out to write. There. I wrote you some, now you have to be patient, okay? (Just kidding, we're good, I don't mind pandering to you at all, but for anyone looking to skip the Pepper interactions, we're cool, you can skip the M/F sex in this chapter and not damage your understanding of the rest of the series)

When Pepper grabs Peter’s hand and pulls him up from his easy sprawl on the cabana bed, he’s a little surprised, surprised enough to stumble.

“I have an idea,” she says. “Follow me.”

“Is it a good idea?” he asks her, nervously.

“It’s the best idea,” she reassures him.

“Hey!” shouts Tony, from where he’s building what is quite an impressive series of irrigation ditches in the sand. Or possibly mapping out moat defenses for the sand Compound he’s been working on for the last hour. Hard to say, really. “Where are you taking my toy?”

“Gimme a half an hour before you come find us,” she shouts back at him. “I won’t do anything sexy, I promise!”

Tony glares over at them, shovel in hand and shouts, “Fifteen!”

“You weren’t even using him! Half hour, Tony,” she shouts, putting a hand on one hip and stomping her foot. Given the complete lack of clothing she’s got going on, Peter’s not really quite sure why Tony’s arguing.  _ He _ wouldn’t argue with the naked lady.

Tony turns back to his work, clearly grumbling.

“C’mon,” orders Pepper. She walks him up the exterior stairs to the suites floor. Peter finds his eyes returning to the Wakandan red and gold embroidered shorts on Tony’s body on the beach. Tony and his fancy shorts get smaller and smaller, he feels, with every step they climb. Tony glances up at them, frowning. Peter shakes his head back at Tony, trying to communicate  _ I have no idea, none of this is my plan, come rescue me in a half hour _ . Tony smiles at him and waves a hand in a shoo-ing motion,  _ You’ll be fine, relax, it’s just Pep. _

Pepper propels them down the long hallway, stopping in front of the door of Tyler’s room and gently nudging it open. “I know this isn’t your favorite,” she says, “And I get it, it feels weird because Tyler designed it for his Captain. But just let me try this thing, okay? Go lay down on the bed, face down, I’ll be right back.”

Peter sighs, and pads over to the bed.

“Shorts off, Peter,” she calls, and, okay, he wasn’t worried before but that’s, that’s a Mr. Stark command, okay? Not usually a Pepper thing to say. He strips them, anyway, folds them, puts them on the side table, and then slides onto the bed, facedown as instructed.

When she comes back in, she’s got one of the fancy organic oil lubes from the playroom and Peter can feel his eyebrows raise in alarm. “Not for your butt,” she tells him quickly. “Or, or anything. I want to touch, I want to give you a massage.”

_ Oh _ . “Oh,” he says, and it’s probably a little insulting how relieved he sounds, he realizes a moment too late. She rolls her eyes and kneels on the bed beside him.

“I love,” she says quietly, “having someone here that doesn’t twitch or flinch or steel himself when I reach out unexpectedly. I love Tony, I understand it, I support it and I don’t ever  _ ever _ want to make him feel self conscious about it, but I am going to touch for the next half hour and you are just gonna lie there and be  _ Peter _ , okay?”

Peter smiles and teases, “Oh, no, Ms. Potts, not a  _ massage _ . What have I ever done to deserve such a punishment?”

“Hush, you,” she tells him, but there’s laughter in her voice. She squirts some of the oil into her hand and rubs her hands together. “Okay,” she says, straddling his butt in one smooth motion. Her pubic hair tickles, Peter thinks, horrified, because this is just another example of how this can’t possibly be his actual life. “You just lie there, and let me do this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, burying his face in the pillow in front of him.

Her hands are nothing like Mai Pa’s hands. They’re not, it’s a good massage, but they’re not confident, steady, sure, the way Mai Pa’s hands were. It just feels good, the way she rubs, small circles, long strokes up and down his spine. She digs her fingers in at his shoulder and he moans a little, because she’s found a knot. She works there for awhile, and then her hands drift up to his neck and he shifts to give her better access.

Slowly, the feel of her hands and the sound of the surf blend into a soothing, calming rhythm that sinks deep into his bones. She rubs down his arms, her chest inches from his back, and he doesn’t even think about her breasts, her nipples, because all he can think is,  _ mmm _ …  _ feels good. _ He’s full of gratitude and calm and feeling good, and that’s about it for thoughts.

“I love,” she says, quietly, barely audible over the sound of the surf, “that you let me do this, Peter. I didn’t, I’ve never done more than hug any of Tony’s side projects, buy them some clothes so they look good with Tony, and that’s about it. I don’t need more, with you, you know you don’t have to give me anything. I know it’s fun to think about us teaming up to take down Tony, but I don’t want you to think, think that that’s something I expect.”

Peter has no bones, but he can take a deep breath and answer back. “I like when you smile,” he tells her. “I think you’re smiling now. And I get a massage out of it. I get all the touches you give me, I love them, and I love making you smile, too.”

He can hear her sigh. “You’re so nice. I can’t tell if, you’re just so nice.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “One of the benefits of this particular model toy. I’m going to be nice to you. It’s hardcore deep in my programming.”

“Well, okay,” she says, her tone laced with a little doubt that makes him frown. “I just, I don’t want you to do things because you think you have to.”

“I don’t,” he says simply, deciding not to be insulted because, well, from the outside, it must look like Tony calls all the shots and Peter’s just  _ accepting  _ everything. “If we never team up to take down Tony, that’s okay, Pepper Potts. And if we do it  _ tomorrow _ , that’s okay with me, too.”

She chuckles a little, “Tomorrow, huh?”

“Or today,” he offers. “I’m saying, I don’t want you to do things because  _ you _ think you have to, Pepper.”

She huffs a breath of air and muses, “You know, I think you’re the only person in my adult life who could say that to me.”

“Well, good,” says Peter, because he had noticed something like that, had been awed by how much pressure she’s under, all the time. She handles it so gracefully, like a fish swimming through deep water, but he had noticed. “Let Stark Industries fall apart if you want, Pepper, I’ll still lay here and let you give me massages. Pretty sure my paycheck from the Avengers will cover us. Or I can invent stuff with Tony, assuming you let me keep him around if you’re only doing things you want to do.”

“Oh, he’s a lot of work, but I definitely want him,” she laughs easily. “And I like being Pepper Potts. It’s-” she blows out a breath, her fingers digging in along his spine, making him twitch because it  _ hurts so good _ , as she presses muscles into letting go that Peter hadn’t even been aware were  _ tight _ , “-it’s a lot, but I like it. I like being so necessary. Do you know, twelve people have to go round-the-clock for these two weeks of vacation? Twelve people, to replace one me.”

He smiles. “Didn’t know it, but no surprise here.”

She blows out another breath and works in silence for a few more minutes, before saying, even more quietly, “I watch you, you know, you and Tony. I’ve never, Peter, he and Kevin, all the side projects, Ian, I’ve never thought-” she sighs, “I’ve never understood it.”

Peter considers her words. “And it’s different, with me?” he inquires softly.

He can feel her shift above him, her hands a little hesitant and tense as they slide down to rub the small of his back, his waistline. He can hear her heart speed up a little. “I told you,” she says, finally, “you’re my  _ best man _ for my wedding. I only get one of those. Well, assuming Tony and I don’t immediately divorce and then remarry.”

Peter snorts. “It’s a valid concern,” he chuckles.

“I don’t like violence,” she says urgently. “I don’t. I don’t like fighting or, or  _ hurting _ .” Her fingers are suddenly so light, tracing around his skin.

“Okay,” he agrees, just so she’ll keep talking. The waves are crashing, a dull roar. He feels fantastic.

“But I like watching Tony, when he’s so rough with you,” she says, and it’s barely more than a whisper. If he didn’t have super hearing, he’d have missed it, he suspects.

“I like Tony when he’s rough with me,” he reassures her. “I like when he pushes my limits. When he pulls my hair.”

Her breathing has gone strange. “Peter, I don’t understand that,” she sighs, her voice a little strangled. “I don’t understand why I want that,” she says, quietly. “I have lived with Tony and his side projects and his Kevin for over a decade, Peter. He took me to Marcus’s in the first week after we, after we started- and I didn’t, I wasn’t interested in any of it. We watched demonstrations, Peter, and it, it did nothing for me, I didn’t understand any of it.”

“Maybe,” says Peter gently, because it’s just a guess, “maybe because you didn’t know them. You know me.”

“But why would I want you to get hurt, then?” she asks quietly.

Peter sighs, because he’s not sure why she picked him for this conversation, it seems like the kind of thing she should talk over with someone who  _ does that side of things _ , “Maybe because you like that I like it, how I respond to it?”

She sighs. “It’s not very sweetheartish.”

“It’s very me, though,” chuckles Peter. “Maybe I’m corrupting you.”

She laughs, then. “Maybe you are. Naughty toy.”

“Yup,” he says, wiggling a little, just to make her laugh. She does, putting one hand on his back to help balance.

She starts rubbing again, her hands back to their earlier calm, easy strokes. He tells her, “You should talk to Tony,” and feels her hands stiffen instantly. “I’ll help him see where you’re at,” he says, “because he’s going to want to jump in and get you a whip,” he laughs, and she snorts, too. “But, I mean, he’s told me stuff, about his first few times, and Pepper, I think what you feel is normal. It’s easier on this side of things,” he muses, feeling her hands relax slowly as he talks. “Because it’s weird, wanting to get roughed up a little, especially, especially because I’m a guy, maybe. But I don’t, I don’t feel _guilty_ about what I want. And Kevin says, aftercare for doms can be really important, too.” If his tone is a little doubtful, it’s because he can’t imagine Tony less than _fully_ _enthusiastic_ about taking apart his toy. Although he remembers the tour of the playroom, that first afternoon, and how Tony’d almost skipped over several of the items there, like he’d purchased them just to have them.

“Maybe,” she says slowly, clearly thinking it over.

“Or Kevin, when we get back,” offers Peter.

“Oh, God, no,” she says, chuckling nervously. “Never Kevin. I can barely talk to  _ you _ about this, and you’re my best man.”

“You’re my best gal,” he tells her, wiggling so she has to put that hand down for balance again, her hair tickling him as she shifts. “And you taught me how to talk.”

“I did,” she sighs.

“Tell you what,” he says. “I’m giving you a green light. You never have to use it, Pepper. But you can pull my hair, scratch me some,” his mind races, thinking of other gentler things Tony has done with him, “grab my wrists-” she gasps, inaudible to anyone but a man with super spider spit hearing, and he thinks,  _ bingo- _ “that kind of thing, try it out, see how you feel.” He thinks about Tony with the enema and snorts, “and if you never want to do it again, that’s great, and if you always want to do it, that’s great, too.”

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Thank you, Peter.”

“Thank  _ you,  _ Pepper,” he chuckles, wiggling again, wilder, almost bucking up. She yelps, and laughs, and her hands are completely back to relaxed and calm as she continues to rub him down.

The surf crashes, filling up the silence in the room, for several long minutes. Peter is aware his mouth is parted and he’s kind of drooling a little, but he doesn’t really care. He’s sure Tyler will sanitize everything in this villa before sitting down, if he used to be a  _ side project  _ of Tony’s.

Eventually, the door creaks and Peter can’t even open his eyes, he’s that boneless, but his lips twitch in a smile.

“Oh my God, you’re trying to kill me,” complains Mr. Stark. “Get off of him, you’re going to kill me with this right now, woman.”

Pepper laughs and trails her fingers along Peter’s spine. He arches into the touch and moans a little.

“Fuck me,” says Mr. Stark, “ _ Stop _ that. I am, I am an old man, and I shouldn’t, my dick shouldn’t get an erection this fast. It’s probably damaging my heart or something.” His voice is abruptly closer to the bed. 

Peter can feel Pepper lean over, hear her kiss Mr. Stark. “I have an idea,” she whispers against Mr. Stark’s ear. Peter has to open one eye to peer up at them and catches her wicked smile.

Mr. Stark’s sudden intake of breath is not a surprise to Peter. “You do?” he asks brightly. “I love your ideas,” he tells her. “Share with the whole class.”

“Peter has been absolutely obnoxious, making you have so much sex, being so sexy, it’s deliberate, I swear,” she says, mock seriously.

Mr. Stark nods immediately. “None of this is my fault,” he declares. “None of the sexing. I am a bad man and he does it deliberately, all the sexing, he exploits my weaknesses  _ horrifically _ .” 

Peter can’t help himself, he snorts. They ignore him entirely.

“And you’re  _ my  _ fiance,” she says.

“Absolutely. Bought you a ring. Bought myself a ring. So many rings,” he encourages.

“So I think,” Peter cracks an eye again, because that was a very interesting choking noise Mr. Stark just made there, just in time to watch Pepper trace a finger down Mr. Stark’s jawline. “I think we should teach him a lesson.”

“Oh my God, yes,” gasps Mr. Stark, eyes blown and dark, lips parted. “Yes. In, I’m  _ in _ . What, which lesson?”

Pepper laughs. “I’ve had to do a lot of watching, Mr. Stark. It’s not fair. He should have to do some, too.”

“Oh. My. God,” gasps Mr. Stark again. “Toy, color?”

“Green,” says Peter easily, shifting up, twisting to rest on an elbow.

“Oh my  _ fucking _ God,” Mr. Stark swears. “Is it, is it Hannukah? Or something? Diwali? You have to tell me these things, I didn’t, I didn’t get  _ you _ anything, Pep.”

“You’re going to give me something, all right,” she laughs, kissing him, as he makes a pained noise.

“Pepper Potts, I love you,” he tells her when she breaks from the kiss to lean back and smile at him. “You should marry me.”

“Okay,” she tells him. “But first, let’s put your toy in the time-out chair.”

“Oh my  _ fucking _ God,” he tells her, kissing her again. “So incredibly turned on. Probably not good for my ticker.”

“Oh, shut up about your ticker, you’re fine,” she says, pushing him to sit on the bed. “Peter, off the bed.”

Peter scrambles up to stand at the foot of the bed, awkwardly shifting his weight.

“Go grab that chair,” she says, leaning down to kiss Mr. Stark, mumbling into his lips, “Pull it up, end of the bed.”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” groans Mr. Stark. “Pep, I’m not going to be able to  _ handle  _ you right now.”

“You better,” she challenges him. “You’ve got an audience.”

He smiles up at her, and then turns to watch Peter settle into the chair. “Yeah, no touching yourself, toy. This is a  _ punishment _ for all the sexy, not a demonstration of it. Keep those hands on the arms of that chair, right where we can see ‘em if we need to check.” Peter nods, moving his arms as directed, and Mr. Stark growls, “What was that, Trouble?”

“Yes, sir,” says Peter promptly.

“You look away,” says Pepper, capturing Mr. Stark’s lips for another deep kiss, “and I am going to be so seriously miffed, Peter.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Peter tells her, voice thick and earnest.

“Holy  _ fuck,” _ mutter Tony savagely. “You,” and he kisses her deeply, “have the best ideas. You should run my company for me, I’m garbage at it anyway.”

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” she tells him, running a hand down his chest to the waistband of his board shorts. Mr. Stark actually gasps, thinks Peter, tossing his head. He  _ gasps _ , like a teenager.

“These need to be on?” she asks Mr. Stark, teasingly. “Or, you think, could you take ‘em off for the next, say, half-hour?”

“Fuck yes, I hate them,” says Mr. Stark, pushing her up to shake out of them. Peter is unsurprised to find that Mr. Stark wasn’t wearing underwear and is sporting an erection that looks painful. He can feel his own pressing against his stomach, a small bead of pre-cum already gathered at the slit.

Pepper pushes him back down onto the bed, and they begin kissing, deeper than anything Peter’s ever seen Mr. Stark kiss anyone, and he did watch that sex tape like six times, and it was an  _ hour _ long and very intense. The intensity in this kiss is one million times more than the entire hour of that other footage, thinks Peter, his lips parting to get more oxygen into his system.

“Mm,” hums Mr. Stark, “Fuck, Pepper, could do this for hours, so good,” he mutters.

“Always say that,” she chuckles, “you always-” and they’re kissing again, and Peter needs to know what Mr. Stark  _ always _ , this is so  _ frustrating _ , just, just finish the sentence, Pepper. “Never last hours,” she teases.

“Not m’fault,” Mr. Stark mutters, thrusting up to make her gasp and lift her head. Peter can see his dick slide against Pepper’s mound, rubbing a little, and, thanks super spider spit vision, he can see the glisten of her moisture against the upper side of it as it glides up. “You like it, anyway,” he tells her, voice rough.

She nods, capturing his gaze with one so intense Peter feels the rest of the room fade. “I do,” she says, leaning forward, her hips grinding against his length, and Peter bites his lip again, thinking of how that must feel, all that warm wet skin, sliding against Mr. Stark’s dick. “I do, Tony, I do.”

Tony pants up at her, and then stretches up and captures her mouth again, elbows helping to support him as he reaches up. She keeps shifting her hips, little grinds, while they kiss, and Peter can just imagine it, can almost feel it. “Fuck,” gasps Tony, after a long minute. “Fuck, Pep, marry me already.”

“Yes, Tony,” she whispers, kissing his eyes, his cheeks, her hips grinding forward, just little twitches. “All yours, yes, I do.”

“Fuck,” gasps Tony, falling back, pulling her with him, and Peter gasps a little with him, because she shifts her hips, on her knees beside his hips, holding them tight, sealing their lower halves together. She teases the tip of his dick until it lines up with her entrance, arching her back so that she can put one hand on his chest and lift herself up, and then, without any kind of guidance, with the kind of confidence that must come, must come from so much experience, she slides back down onto him, one smooth slow slip that has Mr. Stark tossing his head and grunting, straining. 

“God, love you on top, fucking, how do you-?” mutters Mr. Stark. “Fucking, just,” and then he gives up on words to lean up, against the press of her hand, and kiss her breasts, nuzzle at them, nibble the nipples and tug on them.

“Tony,” she gasps, and her hips thrust forward, causing them both to grunt in harmony.

“Yeah, yeah,” mutters Mr. Stark, twisting to lick a lewd circle around her nipple. “Gimme, let’s do that a bit, fuck, yes, please.”

Pepper smiles, tossing her head back and then she begins to set a rhythm that Peter  _ recognizes _ , it’s the rhythm Mr. Stark uses when he’s fucking Peter, slow and steady and  _ aching _ . His dick recognizes it, too, and starts to twitch, and Peter is panting, now. She keeps it up, she’s like Mr. Stark, she can keep the rhythm up, can keep going, and Peter whimpers, because if he was Mr. Stark, they’d be done already, he knows it.

Mr. Stark mutters against her chest, “Fuck, you hear the toy? So fucking hot, Pepper, can you hear him?”

“Little busy,” she gasps, “and don’t care, he’s in time-out, Tony. Not his turn.”

Mr. Stark and Peter both groan a little at that. Mr. Stark starts thrusting up, at the end of every one of Pepper’s little hip thrusts, thrusts up just a little bit further into her, shifting her with each one, and soon she’s gasping, a wet noise, a little, “Ngh,” with every one of his thrusts. Peter grips the chair arms so hard, telling himself not to break it, don’t break the chair, but fuck, fuck, Mr. Stark is staring into her eyes like she’s light and life and oxygen and her fingertips trail down the side of his face, gentle, smooth, worshipping. Mr. Stark kisses her palm, suddenly, and Peter whimpers, because she trails two fingers across his lips when he’s done, and he sucks on the tips of them. 

Peter twists in the chair, just a little bit, because he can’t sit still but he definitely, definitely can’t thrust or look away. Pepper’s lips quirk and Mr. Stark thrusts up, hard, interrupting her rhythm and making her moan, full throated, “Tony.”

“Almost-wife,” he growls, and then his hands are on her hips, setting a new rhythm, guiding her faster, quicker, choppier. “Mine, almost mine.”

“Yours,” she agrees, her voice desperate and low, and when he twists them, a tangle of limbs, she moves with him, easily, like they’ve, like they’ve done this so often she knows the best way to slide beneath him, the smoothest path on any surface. The rhythm, impossibly, the fast quick thrusts, doesn’t even feel interrupted, there’s no stop-and-restart, it just keeps going and Peter is fairly certain he’s going to break the damn chair and he doesn’t care. Mr. Stark holds himself up on his elbows and forearms, a position Peter suddenly recognizes, and then Peter has to shift, has to, because that’s exactly how, exactly how Mr. Stark lays on top of him, when they, when he- Peter whimpers, and Mr. Stark keeps thrusting, the same building rhythm that Peter  _ knows _ .

Pepper rises up, back arching, and threads her fingers through Mr. Stark’s hair, her hips rising in perfect time with Mr. Stark’s, panting and groaning with each joint thrust. “Fuck,” grunts Mr. Stark, “Pepper, gonna,” and she hums, and wraps her legs around him so that her heels drive him deeper, pulls his head down to the small hollow where her shoulder and neck meet. Mr. Stark gnaws there for a moment, kissing and licking, sucking, while his hips buck to the rhythm she sets, and then pushes back up, looking deep into her eyes. “You first,” he hisses, hips seeking forward, pressing forward eagerly. “You, I need to, I need you first, Pep.”

She nods, skin flushing, and throws her head back, eyes closing for a brief second, body shifting to create a different angle for him to thrust into. Mr. Stark grunts, and the pace speeds up for a long few minutes, until Pepper is tossing her head and gasping “Tony, Tony,” with each tiny thrust of her hips to meet him.

“Yes,” hisses Mr. Stark, “You, you, god, so tight, you, Pep, so tight.”

She nods, face strained, and her skin is flushing, Peter realizes, the red color traveling up her torso in fascinating red blotches, before she shakes and cries out and Mr. Stark darts forward, hips thrusting, to swallow her cries in a kiss. She’s shaking, shivering, when he gasps, and grabs for her hips, and thrusts, several times, deep and long and hard, and then grunts, himself, and spends a moment poised, taut, staring into her eyes as they look up at his, marveling.

She nods, and lets out a long, low breath, as he collapses into her arms, following the pull of her hands as she wraps him up, her feet falling to the bed, knees bent on either side of his body. They kiss, long and slow, as Pepper continues to shiver and shake, and Mr. Stark murmurs wordlessly into the kiss.

Peter watches them, aching so hard he could probably come if they even just looked at him. They lay, tangled together, and he thinks, tries to think, what can he do, what, how does he say  _ 'Fucking thank you oh my god!' _ , after that? He stands quietly, wincing, because he’s so hard, it’s so, this is impossible, and walks to the bathroom, grabs a hand towel, wets down a washcloth. He goes back to the chair and sits, and when they stop kissing and turn to him, he offers them up.

Pepper wheezes, “Okay, we can keep him too.”

“Oh, good,” gasps Mr. Stark, burying his head in her neck, planting kisses there that have her shuddering a little. “Was hoping you’d let me.” He shifts, and Peter holds out the washcloth silently. Tony wipes them down, first Pepper, then himself, with the wet washcloth, and then the towel, handing the used cloth back towards Peter without turning his gaze from Pepper’s pleased smile.

“Oh yeah, keeping him,” announces Pepper, satisfied smirk evident in her tone. “Curbside service.” Peter walks the dirty linens back to the hamper in the bathroom and then returns to his chair to find them spooned, facing it, Pepper in front, her body flush to Mr. Stark’s, his arm draped over her side and tucked under her breasts tightly. They both shift up to one elbow as he sits, faces lighting up with equal amounts of mischievousness that makes Peter feel very, uh, vulnerable.

“Learned your lesson, Trouble?” asks Mr. Stark.

Peter nods, and then pauses and shakes his head. He admits, “Uh, I mean, that maybe wasn’t the disincentive you were going for.”

“Oh, no, Tony,” mocks Pepper. “Guess we’ll have to try again later.”

“Kids these days,” agrees Tony. “So jaded by all that internet porn, really takes a lot to make an impact.”

“I dunno,” says Pepper. “That looks pretty painful, Tony.” She nods to Peter, or, well, to Peter’s crotch.

Peter nods, biting his lip to prevent a whine, because it  _ totally is _ .

“Well, he’s sullied you with all his sexiness far too much,” laughs Mr. Stark, rising up, pressing her back flat to the bed to kiss her. When he lifts up again, their eyes are twinkling at each other as he tells her, “So I’ll just go next door and take care of that, where your delicate sensibilities don’t have to be offended, almost Mrs. Stark.”

“Oh, don’t go to extra effort on my part,” she says brightly, tracing a finger along his jaw, making his lips part. “I can always shut my eyes if it gets too much.”

“In that case,” answers Mr. Stark, and he lunges across the bed so suddenly that Peter startles. “Hands on the  _ arms, _ Trouble, I think I was pretty clear with those directions,” he growls, crawling off the bed to kneel in front of Peter. Peter’s hands fly to the arms of the chair and his mouth falls open, ready to ask,  _ what are you doing, Mr. Stark, _ but there’s no need to ask that question, because it’s pretty instantly obvious as the man bends down and sucks Peter’s dick into his mouth, lips and tongue working at a frantic pace. 

Peter does not last more than a few minutes, staring at Pepper’s smirk, hands griping the arms of the chair. It would be embarrassing how short a time he lasts before he’s jerking and groaning, eyes rolling back in his head, but he just watched the hottest sex show on the planet, live, and he’s over it, he’s so completely over it, it’s fine, he’s  _ cool _ .

Mr. Stark lifts his head, eyes twinkling. “So good for my ego,” he laughs.

“I understand why the cockrings,” comments Pepper. 

“Oh, not always,” Mr. Stark assures her. “He’ll be ready again, could probably not even let him soften up, if you wanted a demonstration.” Peter looks down at him, wild-eyed, and then panics up at Pepper. Pepper smiles back at him brightly. “He’s got that spider spit stuff, his refraction time, it’s just-”

“Oh, I never thought of that, four in forty,” she says, like it’s a revelation to her. Peter whimpers and she says, “I mean, on the one hand, punishment, and on the other hand, punishment for making me watch too much sexy already. Better not,” she decides. 

“Fine by me,” laughs Mr. Stark, standing up, pulling Peter with him to the bed. “Go say thank you,” he says sternly, in a voice that travels up and down Peter’s spine twice.

“Th-thank you,” whispers Peter, and then, louder, “God, Pepper, ma’am, thank you, so, thank you. Thank you.”

She leans up and rubs their noses together and Mr. Stark makes a noise that sounds like, “Gah!” and then says, “Okay, stop, no, enough cuteness. Why do you do that to me?”

Peter smiles at Pepper, who smiles back at him, a little lazily. 

“So, what’s for dinner?” she asks.

“Pepper Potts,” says Mr. Stark, pushing Peter to lay down so that he can crawl over him and lay half on top of Pepper, pinning her down, tickling her. “You did not just ask that.”

She giggles, batting at his hands, kicking Peter wildly with her foot in an attempt to free her leg and says, “But I did. I did just ask that.”

“You did not,” he laughs, and then he kisses her again. “I’ve got to finish my fortification plans,” he says, when they break. “So, not it.”

“I’ll make dinner,” sighs Peter, because they just had sex, fighting-as-foreplay seems like overkill.

“Excellent,” Pepper says enthusiastically. “Now everyone go away so I can take a nap here and enjoy my post orgasmic glow. Peter, come get me when it’s done. Tony, sunscreen again.”

Tony gives her another deep kiss, and tickles her sides, and then pushes Peter to get off the bed. “Pitter patter, Peter Parker, one hour,” he says. “Fucking love vacation timetables.”

Peter smiles, glancing back at Pepper, who has already ripped the light blanket down to cover her body and grabbed a pillow to stuff under her head. She looks relaxed and comfortable, closing her eyes to listen to the surf, and the oil on her hands is only visible because he looks for it.

He has no idea what day it is, or how many more days they have together, but it’s a good look on her, he thinks, quietly, following Mr. Stark from the room. Relaxed. Comfortable. Well fucked, well oiled, and well loved.


	4. Prince of Man Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First off, thanks for being patient while my muses ate me this last week and I caught up on some reading.
> 
> Secondly, for tags in this chapter, orgasm denial/delay, sexy apples, wax play, ice play, casually tossing dildos in to-be-cleaned bucket like filthy savages, dildo usage, role play of royalty/slave, and, TA-DA, an actual m'fing traditional safeword, y'all. Be proud.
> 
> MAJOR WIBBELY-WOBBLY TIMEY-WIMEY WARNING. We're on vacation. These are just slices of their life on vacation, so it's entirely possible when you're reading these chapters that they're not sequential, that an earlier chapter POSTED might be a later chapter CHRONOLOGICALLY and that there's a ton of sex happening off-screen. Relax. We're on vacation. Enjoy the smut.
> 
> jf4m, I'm sorry I made you beta-read your own gift. Thank you so much for all of the time and brain power you have donated me these past two months. It has been such a thrill to work with you.
> 
> mindwiped, buckle in, I'm getting your thank you ready.

Peter’s heart is crashing wildly in his ears, he can’t _breathe,_ he’s so hard he could bust concrete. He knows he could, if he just, if Mr. Stark would let him just, just thrust a little, he could fucking jackhammer through concrete. He knows it, he’s so _hard_. He moans a little because he’s so hard it _hurts_. He can’t stop his hips, just one little buck forward, not _trying for anything_ , but just, just _seeking_.

“Ah, ah ah,” teases Mr. Stark, and Peter is working so hard not to come he can’t look up, can’t look up and see those dark eyes, filled with amusement, watching Peter struggle with the waves he’s riding. “I’m not ready, little toy. I’m not ready, and you’re so good for me, so good for me, little toy. Little slave, here in this room- on your knees, you said. Well, request granted, little slave. I do love spoiling you, but I’m not ready to grant the next one.”

Peter grunts, and then moans, as Mr. Stark’s bare foot grazes up the inside of his thigh. His thighs burn, just a little, holding this kneeling position, this impossible, legs-wide kneeling position, just in front of the chair, the _throne_.

“Do you know, I like all this polite eyes down formality. Looks well trained, you _are_ well trained, I do good work. You want to be so good for me, little slave. I do like that.” Peter groans, swaying forward a bare half-inch, struggling to keep his arms folded behind his back, struggling not to push into the foot, not to rub, as it trails closer and closer to his dick. “But I can’t tell if you’re worshipping me enough, those eyes half-lidded like that. Eyes up, little slave.” Mr. Stark’s voice is so mocking, is so _everything_ , filling Peter’s whole head, that it never occurs to him that looking is the last thing he wants to do. His eyes fly up to Mr. Stark’s face, taking in the whole of the man, his breathing shattering into open-mouthed panting.

Mr. Stark is draped over the edge of the throne chair, head cradled on one hand, elbow on the throne’s arm. He’s resplendent in the tunic and long, tight shorts from the rain dance in Wakanda, thick with embroidery. Peter can see he’s half-hard again, _again_ , because they’ve been playing for hours, for days now, for _days_ , Peter is sure of it. Time has gone weird, here, in this room. It always seems to go weird the minute he hits his knees in this room, slow, stretched out. He can’t think, there’s- he’s so hard- but there’s something else, something in this room, something about being _on his knees_ , something about it that makes it so he _can’t_. He can’t think, all he can do is just, just wait, just hang in every second, waiting. He responds to Mr. Stark’s words, his orders. He gives Mr. Stark whatever he wants, and then he just- _waits_ again, head empty, time spun out like thick honey in the air around him.

Mr. Stark’s eyes are dark, they have been, every time Peter’s been told to look up, the eyes have been dark and intense, even if his body is draped casually, foot outstretched, trailing up and down Peter’s aching thigh. The choker- the collar- is heavy around Peter’s throat when he swallows back another whining moan. “Mmm,” hums Mr. Stark, his lips twisted into a smirk. “That’s nice, can see just a little bit of panic there. So needy, little slave, you need what I have to give so much, mm, little toy?”

Peter trembles, and nods, and whimpers, “Yesss, sire, yess.”

“Mm. What fun games you’re playing with me today, little slave. Love to hear it, love to hear it, say it again, little slave,” orders Mr. Stark, leaning forward suddenly, sliding a hand through Peter’s hair, pulling his head back, pulling him off-balance.

“Yesss, sire,” Peter tells him, teeth gritted. He will not come, he will not, he hasn’t been _told_ to, he hasn’t been _given permission_ yet.

“Good slave,” hisses Mr. Stark, watching Peter closely, watching as those words shock through Peter’s whole body, watches him gasp and try to hold back, try not to- he’s so hard, he’s been so hard, it’s so hard, he wants to be so good, so good.

Mr. Stark chuckles, releasing him. “So close. So close for me, just the way I like you best. Been hanging right on the edge for so long, I’m impressed. Makes me think we should throw out all those cockrings I bought you. Throw ‘em away, make you _work_ for it every time.”

Peter watches Mr. Stark’s lips move. He lets the meaningless words wash over him, there’s too many, and none of them are _directions_. The tone Mr. Stark’s using is keeping him panting, open-mouthed, but the words are too much, too much to keep track of, when Mr. Stark’s dark eyes are glaring into his, when he needs- when Peter needs so much right now. 

There’s silence then, or almost silence, as Peter’s panting and the low thrum of the vibrator fill Peter’s hearing, almost masking the sound of the crashing waves outside the windows. Peter groans a little, lowly, because in addition to his dick and his thighs, his ass is aching from clenching around the small dildo during orgasms. Mr. Stark twists, reaching for the fruit bowl. He selects a red apple and Peter swallows as Mr. Stark takes a huge bite, turning to watch Peter again, head cocked to one side.

“Ooh,” he smirks. “You look thirsty. Or hungry. Hungry work today. What number are we at?” He takes another bite, exaggerating the motion, turning it into a kiss of the apple’s skin, lips dragging down the sides.

“F-five, sire,” gasps Peter, tossing his head because that’s allowed, that’s, he’s allowed that much motion. Mr. Stark said _you stay where I put you_ but he hasn’t, hasn’t corrected any of Peter’s nods, ducks, tosses, so he’s _allowed_.

Mr. Stark nods, chewing slowly. “That’s right, I’m spoiling my slave today, was so good for me yesterday, so good for me in the playroom, such a good toy.” The words are a caress and Peter struggles under the sensation of them, sliding against his skin, the praise almost strangling him in the need to _earn_ it. He breathes through his nose and doesn’t drop his eyes, although they almost flutter shut. _Eyes up, little slave_ , remembers Peter just in time.

“Well, here, have a bite, since I’m spoiling you,” teases Mr. Stark, but he doesn’t hold the apple to Peter’s lips, barely holds it out at all. Peter’s going to have to lean forward, impossible, he knows, impossible to lean forward, his thighs ache, the dildo will shift, shift against his prostate. Peter sobs a breath, just thinking of it, preparing for it. It’s impossible but it’s what Mr. Stark wants, and Peter is going to give it to him, he will, he just, just needs a minute.

“Aww, c’mon, little slave,” mocks Mr. Stark, wiggling the apple, “be good for me, be good for your benevolent master, your king, have a bite.” He holds the apple forward just a bare inch and Peter panting shatters for a second into wet gasps as he nods, preparing to lean forward.

He strains, his ass clenching on the dildo, praying the new angle doesn’t let it slide, he’d dropped it once, earlier in the week, and been punished, he doesn’t _want_ that, he wants to be only _good_. His thighs tremble, his stomach clenching tight to support the tilt, the shift, arms tight behind his back. God, he’s so hard, so _hard_ , but that apple looks juicy and his mouth is so _dry_.

Peter doesn’t realize it’s a trap until his teeth are sunk into the apple’s flesh, mid bite, the juice exploding into his mouth, so sweet. Mr. Stark’s other hand flies up to bury itself in his hair, pull his head back, apple pressed tightly in Peter’s mouth. “Now,” he orders, eyes drilling into Peter’s with cruel intent. “Six, now,” he orders, and Peter cries around the apple as his orgasm rips through him, making him writhe in Mr. Stark’s grip, dangling, such an impossible angle. 

Mr. Stark watches him, eyes sharp and interested, curious, through the whole thing, and then says coldly, so playfully cold it makes Peter’s dick twitch, spilling the last of his cum on the floor, “What a mess you’ve made, little slave.” Peter’s mouth is full of apple, he’s bitten down but not through, and the juice is choking him, the juice and the orgasm, and so he can’t say thank you, sire, like he knows he’s supposed to. He can’t do anything but twitch and whimper.

“Where are those good manners? Where’s all my training?” mocks Mr. Stark, shaking him. “Take the bite, little slave, I need to hear how much you appreciate making a mess on my floor for me.”

Peter can’t breathe, around the apple, so he bites through it, fills up his mouth with juice and flesh, it dribbles down his chin, juice and drool, and says hurriedly, mouth full of apple and wet, voice distorted, “‘fank oo, fire.”

Mr. Stark clucks his tongue and Peter flinches, because he’s _disappointed_. That’s, that’s not a good happy noise. “Swallow. Try again,” he commands, shaking Peter by his hair. “After all the time I’ve put in, do it _right_ , slave, or don’t even offer to slide to your knees as tribute at all.”

Peter swallows the apple so fast he chokes and then gasps, grabbing for control as fast as he can to say, quietly, respectfully, the way the king wants it said, “Thank you, sire, thank you. Don’t deserve it, don’t deserve you, thank you.”

Mr. Stark looks back at him, eyes flashing, but he concedes, “Better. Almost perfect, almost what I _do_ deserve. We’ll keep working on it, little slave, until you are what I deserve, until you give me everything I want, every time, exactly how I want it.”

Peter shakes, because yes, he wants that, God, does he want that, yes.

“Six,” muses Mr. Stark, releasing him to sit back and pant. “Take the toy out,” he commands and Peter sobs, just once, grateful, relieved, _shocked_ by the clemency. “We already found that upper limit, didn’t we, little slave,” he muses, as Peter’s shaking hands reach back and slip the dildo from his ass, moaning and whimpering. He’s careful not to drop it, careful, so careful to keep it cradled, safe. 

“Ooh,” breathes Mr. Stark, gleeful. “I know what I want next. I know what you’re going to give me, next, I know what I want. Up, my little subby slave,” he chortles, crooking a finger at Peter.

Peter stares up at him, chest heaving, hands full of slick dildo, for a full second before he can put all the words into order with the gesture and realize he’s being asked to _stand_. He whimpers as he rises, as his muscles stretch and joints bend for the first time in days, he’d swear to _weeks_ , at this point, and Mr. Stark laughs, running a finger along his collar. “I told you I didn’t need a weapon of ass destruction to give you an experience you’ll still feel at dinner tonight, Trouble,” he chuckles, which is a little unfair because Peter had _believed_ him when he’d said it. 

Mr. Stark slides the dildo from his hands and tosses it carelessly into the open box already containing two other used toys on the massive chest at the end of the bed. He runs his hands up and down Peter’s back, soft, soothing. They stand like that for a long time, Mr. Stark rubbing his hands everywhere, up and down Peter’s back, along his arms, his legs, rubbing away the tingles, rubbing fresh blood into all of his limbs. It feels very good. 

“You still green?” asks Mr. Stark quietly. “You still up for more? We can go for a swim, if you’re not. Six is plenty, I know you start getting a little strung out. We already did so overstimmed I broke you, I just want to have fun today.”

Peter swallows, tasting apples, and does the check in he knows Mr. Stark is asking for. He feels in his body for any sign of that overstimulated anxiety, for any low humming buzz of _I can’t, I need rest, this is too much_ , but there’s nothing there. His legs ache, his butt feels empty and, uh, well, a little tender, but not _bad_. He smiles, then, slowly, where Mr. Stark can’t see him, and murmurs, “Green, sire, as green as a fresh ripe apple.”

Mr. Stark chuckles, and smacks Peter’s ass. “Sassy, slave. Entirely too sassy.”

“My abject apologies, sire,” Peter intones, and he knows he’s not hiding that smile at all, with that tone.

“Okay, message received, still playtime,” chuckles Mr. Stark. He pushes and pulls at Peter’s body until Peter is facing him, and then threads his fingers through Peter’s hair. Peter knows this cue by heart, and tilts his face to the perfect angle for the kiss he receives, hot and heavy and eager and excited. Mr. Stark gives a small wicked smile when he pulls back, and Peter is helpless not to return it, his brain fogging back up with desire almost instantly.

“This way,” Mr. Stark informs Peter cheerfully, tugging him forward, one finger under the choker, and letting Peter figure out how his footing is going to work. It’s no surprise to Peter that he almost stumbles, almost trips, as they make their way to the low, huge ottoman that Mr. Stark has informed him is, in fact, from the 1760s. They’ve been using it as a fuckbench for the past week, and Peter is not surprised when Mr. Stark presses him down onto it. He’s not even surprised when he’s pressed stomach-down. They’ve done that, too, here in this room where he forgets his name sometimes, forgets everything, forgets _words_ , while he’s on his knees. He’s stretched, and slick, and so he can guess what’s coming next, with Mr. Stark half-hard again.

The candles, therefore, come as a complete surprise.

Mr. Stark scratches down his back, rubbing the skin, and Peter moans, because it feels good. Mr. Stark arranges him exactly as he wants him to lie down, limbs flat, head tilted. He’s comfortable, and a little confused, because this isn’t exactly an easily-fuckable position. He doesn’t spend a lot of effort worrying because in this room his efforts go entirely to listening to directions and following them.

“These,” says Mr. Stark, somewhere and behind Peter. “These are not just any kind of candle.” There’s the sound of a match being struck and Mr. Stark makes a pleased noise. “These are 100% pure soy. Do you know, little slave, what I love about 100% pure soy candles?”

Peter’s drooling, panting with his mouth open in anticipation. When he realizes it, he sighs because that’s not a great look. He swallows, licks his lips, and wipes his face against the priceless antique ottoman, because it’s already gotten a lot of his drool on it, a little more isn’t going to hurt. He’s hoping he doesn’t have to answer Mr. Stark, that the question was rhetorical, because he really doesn’t want to be trapped into saying, “No, sire.”

“I love 100% pure soy candles,” continues Mr. Stark conversationally, and his body turns, walking back to Peter on the ottoman, to stand in front of Peter where Peter can easily see him. “Because we can play with them, little slave,” he finishes, crouching, holding the flame before Peter’s eyes. “Do you want to play a game with me, little slave? A new game?”

Peter nods, because they talked about this, weeks ago, there’d been a list, candles, wax, dripping, and Mr. Stark’s eyes had lit up when he’d enthused about how much he enjoyed it.

“Good,” says Mr. Stark. “Safeword?”

“Halt,” replies Peter easily.

“Excellent,” smiles Mr. Stark. He leans in and kisses Peter for a moment before standing back up and straddling Peter’s hips on the ottoman in one smooth motion. “Look at all this canvas, just for me,” he muses, running one finger lightly over Peter’s spine. “Well, let’s wake you up.”

Peter’s not sure what he’s expecting, when the first drip hits, but he’s not expecting how good it feels. There’s a bright splash of heat and pain, but then it pools, gently, a soothing warmth. “Soy candles,” muses Mr. Stark, “Burn at 54 degrees celsius, which, I can see your little brain whirling, 130 fahrenheit, little slave, don’t stress yourself. If I hold them 18 inches up here, that’s 46 centimeters, give or take small fractions, and totally safe, I promise you, Peter. I’m not looking to brand you just yet.” He drips the wax, slowly, and everywhere it lands, it’s a bright spot of pain and heat that melts into soothing warmth, little tiny drops, everywhere along Peter’s back, until Peter is jelly under the warmth, loving it. Occasionally, one is almost too hot, and Peter hisses, but he’s been burned a lot, superheroing is not safe, and this is nothing like that. “There,” says Mr. Stark, after several long minutes have passed. “Now we know you like this, little slave, and that’s- that’s so pleasing. You please me so much. I’m adding this to the list, that’s how much I can tell you like this.”

Peter nods his head, because he loves the warmth, loves the way it simmers and soothes.

“And now, connect the dots,” chuckles Mr. Stark, and sure enough, instead of bright pools of heat and pain, it’s long lines of it, stripes at random, swirls. Peter shifts, and Mr. Stark makes a noise of interest, of encouragement, so he shifts when he needs to, little twitches of his hips that brush him up against Mr. Stark’s crotch. “So good,” hisses Mr. Stark at one point, “Goddamn, so good, little slave. Love this.”

Eventually, when Peter believes his back must be absolutely coated in a layer of wax, Mr. Stark slips off of him, setting the candle on the wooden table beside the ottoman. “Ah,” he says. “So pretty, all that white wax on your flushed skin, white on pink, I like it. Wish FRIDAY was here, would have her take a scan, save it for my new background.” He rustles around on the low table, opening things, munching on something, and then says, “and now, for the second half, the removal.”

He climbs back on top of Peter, and there’s a single splash of absolutely frigid water that has Peter gasping, because it’s the opposite, the exact opposite of the fun warmth, it’s freezing, it’s so cold, and he immediately hates it. He clenches his jaw and twists his head, scrubbing his forehead on the ottoman’s surface. “Oh,” says Mr. Stark, pleased, “Well, _that’s_ a big reaction. Safeword?”

“Halt,” grunts Peter.

“I don’t think you’re going to like this at all,” says Mr. Stark conversationally. “What a shame. I will.” And then he presses _ice_ to Peter’s spine in one slow pass, starting at the neck, which has Peter twitching and twisting a little, trying to get out from under it, he _hates_ how cold it is, and sliding slowly, clearly shifting the wax, so slow, god, Peter _hates_ it, slowly down Peter’s spine in a smooth line. By the time the line hits the crack of Peter’s ass, he’s panting and gritting his teeth, hands fisted.

“That,” says Mr. Stark, lifting the ice cube, “is so _fascinating_. Do you not like cold, little slave?”

Fuck it, he’s going to say it, he doesn’t care. “No, sire,” grits Peter.

“No, sire,” repeats Mr. Stark, with false disappointment. “No, sire. Weren’t those words we’ve agreed, words we’re not using, little slave? Words that get punished, here in this room?” He runs a finger through the cold wetness along Peter’s spine, playfully pushing the hardened wax around, chipping away at it.

“Yes, sire,” admits Peter.

“Mm. Such a big reaction, to one little ice cube. I think, I think I know what your punishment is going to be, little slave.” Peter would groan, but he’s pretty sure he knows, too, from the smirk in Mr. Stark’s voice. “You remember your safeword, now, because that was- that was a big reaction, little slave. But it’s just ice, I promise. Well, and the wipes. Those have to be cold, too, for clean up, or the soy wax, it’s impossible, little slave, and this ottoman is priceless.”

Peter grunts wordlessly and takes a deep breath.

“So good for me, getting ready for your punishment,” soothes Mr. Stark. “But you know, little slave, that was such a big reaction, I don’t think you’re going to be ready for this no matter how deep you breathe.”

Peter agrees, but he holds still, perfectly still, waiting. 

When the cold comes, this time, there’s no drip of water to give warning. The cold hits, mid-back, directly, and Peter yelps in surprise, and because he hates it, it’s so much, so cold. Mr. Stark chuckles, and Peter hates that, too. “Such a big reaction, you’re more twisted up about this than you are about the actual _punishments_ in the playroom, Trouble.”

Peter clenches his jaw as the ice cube begins to move around, to slice through the wax, wipe the wax away. There’s a pause, Mr. Stark lets it slide to a rest in the hollow of Peter’s spine, and the sound of rustling, and then Peter yelps again, because what the _fuck_ is that?

“Wipes,” chuckles Mr. Stark, “I told you, chilled wipes, to take the wax off, Trouble.” The wet cold cloth rubs up Peter’s spine and yeah, it’s probably taking the loosened wax off but it is also freezing off Peter’s epidermis, in a wide swath, while the ice cube sits in that one spot, dissolving and spreading a pool of cold into Peter’s _soul._

“You do not like this at all,” laughs Mr. Stark, which, yes, Peter had noticed that. He noticed that he hates this. This is the worst, especially so soon, after the soothing candles. “I am a horrible person,” declares Mr. Stark, and Peter agrees, privately, where Mr. Stark can’t catch him. “Because I am loving this,” continues Mr. Stark, “I am absolutely loving this, it is going on the list, such a big reaction, Trouble.”

 _Fuck_.

Mr. Stark shifts the ice cube and the glacial lakewater it has built up around it, siding it across Peter’s lower back, and he rears up, just a little, which makes Mr. Stark burst into laughter again. “Oh my God,” he chuckles, and Peter hates the ice cube _even more_. “Oh my God, we are- this is my new favorite thing.”

Of course it is. Peter blows out a breath and braces himself as the ice cube slides across his skin, but it hits a sensitive spot, okay, and he _twists_ a little, because it’s a sensitive spot.

“Are you kidding me, right now?” demands Mr. Stark, voice choked with laughter. “Listen, little slave,” and the words sound very different when Mr. Stark is laughing like that, “you will hold still, right where I put you, while I clean this mess off of your back, do you hear me?”

Peter gasps and nods and then, when Mr. Stark is clearly just waiting, he says, “Yes, sire,” but he can’t keep all of the resentment out of his tone.

Mr. Stark’s hand slides up to grab his hair, lift his head, and he hisses, leaning down so that his breath disturbs the air beside Peter’s ear, “Stay. Right where I put you. You will control yourself, whimper all you want, give me noises, but you will not. Move.”

Peter whimpers, “Yes, sire,” because sweet fuck, that’s an impossible thing to ask, much less demand, but Peter’s a good little slave, in this room, and he’s going to die trying to please.

“Good,” says Mr. Stark, in his deepest, darkest, richest tone of voice, the one that slides down Peter’s spine with shivers.

And then the cold is back, a new ice cube this time, sliding across Peter’s shoulders. He shivers, he actually shivers, and Mr. Stark chuckles with amusement, following behind it with the frozen cloth, first the wet shock of ice cube and then the freezing caress of cloth, lingering. It goes on and on, and Peter shifts once, just a little, his teeth clenched so tightly, breath hissing. Mr. Stark doesn’t correct him, but he lays one hot hand in the center of Peter’s back, fingers splayed, in warning. Peter nods, because he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to, it just, the ice, it hit a spot, another spot. “Almost done,” soothes Mr. Stark. “You’re being so good for me, little slave, I see it, I see how hard this is. I’m impressed, because I can see it, I know how hard you’re working to hold still for me, let me do this.”

Peter whimpers back at him, grateful the effort is not going unnoticed. It is so hard not to twist, not to shift away from every movement of the ice cube, so hard to hold still and shiver.

“Thermoregulation, I remember that now,” says Mr. Stark musingly. “Wasn’t that what Bruce said, during the testing, decreased thermoregulation. We could have been playing such games this whole time, if I’d just remembered that tidbit, toy.” 

The ice cube moves, more targeted, hitting the few patches of warmth Peter can still feel, those few areas on his back that are still comfortably warm, encased in a protective layer of wax. He whimpers, some, because he’s getting cold everywhere, too cold, he’s shivering, and he hates it.

“Not much more,” soothes Mr. Stark. “You can do this for me, not much longer. Stay still. I’ll warm you up, toy, my little slave, I promise, I’ll warm you up, so good for me.”

Peter nods miserably, and Mr. Stark chuckles. “Always so many pleasant surprises for me, Trouble, just when I think you won’t give me something more, there’s always a surprise.”

There’s the sound of another frozen wipe being drawn from the package and Peter whimpers as Mr. Stark wipes it in long, slow strokes, from Peter’s shoulders straight down to Peter’s ass, up and down, across his whole back. “There,” says Mr. Stark, as Peter’s teeth begin to chatter. “There, now we know,” he says, soothingly. “C’mon, up,” and he stands up, easily, one swift motion, “The bed, you need warming, and the bed is the perfect place, c’mon, little slave, follow your master.” Peter awkwardly clamors to his feet, because he’s so cold, he’s shivering, and his brain seems slower in a different way, half of it taken up by cold.

“Oh,” says Mr. Stark, and then he’s frowning a little, tilting his head. “Hm. Okay, noted. Here-” he pulls Peter back to his chest, his warm, blazing warm chest, and holds him there, nuzzling Peter’s cheek for a moment. “Shh,” he tells Peter, and Peter’s not making any noise, so he’s not sure why he’s being shushed, but the warmth of Mr. Stark’s chest is so amazing, he’s sinking back into it, even if the embroidered tunic feels a bit rough on his raw skin right now.

“Better?” hums Mr. Stark. Peter considers saying no, but honesty is their number one stock in trade, so he nods.

Mr. Stark hums and says, “Well, let’s go get warmed, I have an idea, I think you’ll like it. C’mon, be my little slave for just one more thing.”

Peter shivers, and says, “Yes, sire,” because one more thing, he can do that. Especially if it involves warmth.

Mr. Stark guides him up the stairs, to the impossible bed, his hands warm on Peter’s hips, stroking up and down Peter’s sides, trailing warmth with every pass. He presses Peter down into the center of the mattress, shifting limbs and arranging him until Peter’s ass is in the air and his face is on the mattress. This isn’t noticeably warmer, Peter notes with a little resentment, but then there’s the sound of cloth rustling, and then a finger slides into his ass, questing. “Still lubed,” grunts Mr. Stark. “Plenty in there, still stretched, won’t take long, gonna warm you up, promise, promise I will.” Peter’s so cold, his back is so chilled, but he nods, because he also knows how good those fingers can make him feel, and maybe they’ll distract from the damn shivering. There’s more cloth rustling, and the embroidered tunic falls to rest by his head and he moans, thinking of Mr. Stark’s bare chest, how warm it is every night, wrapped around Peter. Skin to skin, that’s what Peter wants, what Peter needs. Skin to skin.

Mr. Stark slides two fingers in, abruptly, and Peter grunts, but he is still stretched, it’s not painful, just, just a lot, with no warning. They start shifting, sliding through the lube there, but Peter did a good job of prepping when he was told to, with extra slick, too much lube. He was told to put so much in, and he did, he _did._ It doesn’t take long, then, for Mr. Stark to unbutton the trousers and slip his dick inside, sighing in contentment. Peter moans, too, because there’s so much warmth there, now, so much warmth radiating from every point of contact between their bodies now. His back is still chilled, sure, but there’s warmth, now, Mr. Stark pressed so tightly against his thighs, his ass. 

Mr. Stark is thrusting, just a bit, just enough- Peter loves the vibrations of the dildo but _fuck_ if this isn’t better in every way. His grunts turn into words, fast and frantic, more fast and more frantic with every thrust. “Fuck, yes, all those little twitches on the bench, fuck, being so good for me, wanted this, wanted, gonna have to do ice and this, fuck, yes, let you twitch, let you move, fuck yourself on my dick, trying to get away from the ice, let me warm you up, fuck,” babbles Mr. Stark, but Peter’s quickly beyond caring what he says, because then he leans forward, all hot skin and short, shallow thrusts, and presses his chest to Peter’s back. Peter cries out, because it feels that good, it feels so good, so shockingly good, all the warmth, all the warm, pressed down like that, and Mr. Stark grunts, “Fuck, Trouble, you’re ice cold.”

Yeah, Peter had _noticed_. 

“Well, not for long,” hisses Mr. Stark, shifting them both, raising Peter up to meet the heat of his chest with his back. Peter fists the sheets, and arches his back, up, up, every possible point of contact with Mr. Stark’s skin that he can make happen. He’s still thrusting, and Peter moans, because no, not for long, not for long at all, the heat Mr. Stark is giving off is seeping into his bones, the furnace above him, the motion, the feel of Mr. Stark’s dick sliding past his prostate, hitting it with every small shift. He won’t be cold for long at all. Mr. Stark slides first one hand and then the next one down Peter’s arms, which are holding them both up, now, and he traps Peter’s hands under his, holding them tight to the mattress, bringing their bodies in such close contact that Peter feels a little crushed and nothing crushes Peter these days, nothing. He grunts, “You want this heat, you do some work, little slave, _move_.”

Peter bucks, then, wild, grateful, pressing back into Mr. Stark’s warmth eagerly. He shifts his hips, gasping with each small slide, suddenly hard and aching. 

“Fuck, like you like this, desperate, so needy, fuck, gonna do this every day, every week, fuck,” says Mr. Stark, as Peter shakes beneath him. Sobs start to rise because he’s so warm, he’s starting to warm up, Mr. Stark is a furnace above him, and there’s _friction_. He’s so fucking grateful for that warmth, so fucking grateful.

Mr. Stark chokes, “Fuck, I can’t, shit, Trouble, you-” and then he groans, and Peter knows that sound, loves that sound, and so he shifts his hips just a little faster, a little more brutal. Mr. Stark jerks wildly, above him, and then comes with a short shout, pressing Peter abruptly into the mattress, collapsing on top of him a little, grunting, “Warm you up, just take it, you just hold still.”

Peter’s never moving again. The soft mattress warms up beneath him, and Mr. Stark is a fucking furnace of heat and skin above him, and he’s trapped there, with Mr. Stark panting above him and his dick throbbing below him, and he’s never moving. Pepper will have to bring him warm soup in mugs with straws, because Peter is never moving again. Mr. Stark chuckles, his chin resting in the crook of Peter’s shoulder, loud in Peter’s ear. “So, on the list, sorry, Trouble, but on the list, that was so fucking hot.”

“Cold,” argues Peter, and attempts to burrow up into Mr. Stark and down into the mattress at the same time. 

“Cold, okay,” teases Mr. Stark. “Warmed you up, though, fuck, Trouble, you were so needy, never heard you whine like that before.”

Peter’s blush is instantaneous and accompanied by a groan of embarrassment. 

“Oh, no, I get what I want,” laughs Mr. Stark, sliding one hand down Peter’s side, shifting his hips, his softening dick sliding just a little against Peter’s prostate. “And I want this, want you like that, so good for me. You’ll do it, you’ll grit your teeth and hate it, but you’ll do it, I know you, filthy little fuck toy, you’ll do it because I want it.”

Peter blows out a breath and says, in a voice rich with sardonic amusement, “Yes, sire,” because he will, Mr. Stark has his number, if he wants Peter cold and shivering every night, to warm him up every night, Peter will give it to him. He’s helpless not to.

“Good slave, I like it. Give me everything I want,” laughs Mr. Stark.

Peter wiggles back, just a little, not enough to unseat Mr. Stark’s cock, and smiles. “Yes, sire,” he says.

“Take a nap,” declares Mr. Stark. “I’ll be your octopus. Then we can go down, eat some lunch-”

 _Lunch_ , thinks Peter wildly, _doesn’t he mean dinner?_ They’ve been playing for _days_ , today.

“-and hit the beach, warm up in the afternoon sun, I promise, perfect Peter Parker,” teases Mr. Stark. “On my tropical island, the only time you’ll be chilled is when I want you to be.”

Peter nods, because that sounds, that sounds like an excellent plan, and he is so tired, legs aching, ass sore, he doesn’t even need to come, six is plenty. Mr. Stark shifts, sliding out, and wipes them both down with the towel from earlier that morning, still on the bed. He tosses it to the floor and wraps himself around Peter, shifting them both, drawing up the light covers. “Okay, you sleep, I’ll do a furnace imitation,” he directs Peter, and Peter nods. Okay. That sounds good.

Mr. Stark makes pretend rumbling noises and Peter snorts.

“You stay right there, where I put you,” say Mr. Stark. “Let me do my job.”

“Yes, sire,” smiles Peter, rubbing his cheek against the silk sheets.

“Good slave,” declares Mr. Stark, kissing the back of Peter's neck.

“Yes, sire,” repeats Peter, burrowing back into his octopus’s many arms and legs.

"This is probably going to give me a complex somehow," muses Mr. Stark. "All this royalty role-play."

Peter snorts. "Yes, sire," he agrees.  
  
Mr. Stark slaps him on the hip and murmurs, "So sassy, little slave," and it's the last thing they say for awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God, these chapters are writing themselves BACKWARDS, with the end chapter getting written first and then the next one before that mostly written and I'd tear my hair out but that actually scares off the fucking muses, I've learned. So be patient, here in the middle bits, because the end ones will post faster. Probably. Fuck if I know.


	5. Mirrors Suite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags, tags, uh, so, Starker D/s, which I just miss tagging these days, I might take another break from the Island and go write a longer more plotty story just because I miss tagging Starker D/s, but I DIGRESS: Tags! Mirrors. Pain princesses. Objectification of people, Peter in particular. Tony's point of view. Anal sex.
> 
> Uh.
> 
> Swear words? Is that... should I be tagging that? IT SAYS EXPLICIT ALREADY.

Tony glances over to the wall and decides he just doesn’t get it. He just don’t get why Pepper and Peter both dislike having sex in this room so much. Sure, they’ll do it for him- with him, he corrects- but neither one of them enjoy the whole point, which is, you know, the _mirrors_. 

Case in point, this exact moment, when he can lean up just a little and watch his dick slide in and out of Peter’s ass as Peter rides him, which wouldn’t be possible without the damn mirror. This is fucking pornographic, this is amazing, he’s so glad he bought this fucking villa, because he’s never going to be able to forget this moment, and that’s only half because shit, Peter’s clenched around him so tight, their first fuck of the morning is always so fucking _tight_ , and all those years with condoms had not prepared him for how fucking good it feels to have flesh against his flesh, you know? Nothing is ever going to be a replacement for this feeling, the smooth soft slide of Peter’s giving flesh wrapped around his dick like warm silk.

The other half, of course, is the fucking _visual_ _aid_. Thank you, mirrors.

Peter’s eyes are screwed tightly shut, and he’s covered in a fine slick of sweat as Tony reaches up and trails his fingers everywhere across that absolutely cut torso, murmuring, “Good boy, good toy, keep going, almost there, aren’t you, almost there, keep going.” He flicks Peter’s nipples, where the beginner clamps are clipped, just to interrupt the rhythm, shake the sub up a little, make him bite his lip. Make him work for control. It has exactly the desired effect, lip bite and all. Good toy, eager toy, fuck, how did Tony live all those years without his own personal superhero?

This is the kind of religious experience that makes him believe in karma. Switch from bombs to clean energy, get to watch the most perfect, most gorgeous, most amazing subby twink in history ride you at dawn thirty. Tony may have started life a very bad man, but he’s never taking chances with his karmic virtue, ever again. He might even take up prayer, like, actual prayer, instead of all the _fuck, Jesus, fuck, Peter, God, fuck_ , he’s been grunting this morning already. Hell of a way to wake up.

He glances up at the ceiling and catches his own eye, grinning. It’s a smug and cocky look, but Jesus, look at who he is, look at what he’s got. He’s allowed to be a little smug, America’s fucking sweetheart is working himself up into a fever pitch on Tony’s cock, taking Tony with him for the ride. He winks at himself and then returns his gaze to the image of his cock, sliding smoothly in and out as Peter tenses and relaxes his thighs.

“Mm, faster,” he orders Peter, slapping the sub on the thigh. “Work for it, little harder, c’mon, give me what I want. You’re so close,” he encourages, as Peter’s lips part on a little moan, his hips jerking wildly before settling into a newer, slightly faster rhythm. He bites back his own groan, eyes fixed on Peter’s face, shifting down to take in the sub’s bouncing cock, smeared with pre-cum. Yeah, Peter’s close, he’s so close, he’d know that pant anywhere, in a dark alley Tony could hear it and know how close Peter is, how fucking needy he’d be, right now, if Tony told him to stop, how frantic, how eager to please. But it’s the first fuck of the day, and Peter never lasts long, not during the first one, and he’ll be just as eager on the second or third pass, so Tony can afford to let him ride the ride, he thinks magnanimously.

America’s fucking sweetheart is an absolute whore for Tony’s dick, which is really convenient, because Tony’s a bit of a slut for him, too. _Fuck. Feels so good._ Peter always feels so good, whether it’s his mouth or his hand or even, _fuck_ , just the slide of his skin against Tony’s in the middle of the night, _fuck_ , he always feels so good.

Peter whimpers, which is the best, the be-all end-all _best_. Tony can’t help it, he hears it, he has to thrust, it’s not a choice. He presses up just as Peter grinds down, and watches as Peter’s back muscles twist and writhe, listens to the other man moan. Tony gives a gasp, himself, watching Peter struggle, watching Peter impale himself and struggle not to give it up, not to give Tony what he wants too soon.

Peter is stubborn in all the best ways. Super fond, Tony is super fond, Tony’s _dick_ is super fond, _fuck_. He switches back to looking up into Peter’s face, loving the tiny frown of concentration at the corners of his mouth, lips slack as the younger man hangs on the cusp. 

Time to push, and God, does Tony love this toy, love how Peter lets him play, love how Peter cedes everything to him, so trusting. “C’mon,” growls Tony, thrusting again, making Peter gasp and tremble, “Gimme, Trouble.” The slight shift of skin, Peter clenching in protest, almost does him in, he’s almost fucking up wildly into that goddamn gorgeous ass, but at the last second he scrapes together two extra brain cells worth of control. “C’mon, gimme,” he grunts again, hands flying to Peter’s hips, shaking him just a little, “c’mon, mine, I want it.”

Peter’s hips stutter as his eyes fly open, shocked and wide, caught, caught in the second before he shatters. Tony could stare at him all day, just like this, held in this moment. Fuck, Peter is so fucking perfect, his pupils blown, his lips red and bite-puffy and currently slack with surprise. Tony grunts and shifts, a little press upward, and Peter’s eyes flutter for a split second before he lifts up and slides down again, three times in quick succession, and then groans as his cock twitches and his back arches and he comes. 

Tony’s eyes fly to the mirrors. He has only a three-heartbeat count to memorize Peter _right now_ at every angle, and he is taking advantage of it. Peter’s so goddamn cut and perfect, every muscle in sharp delineation, he’s an anatomy model, and Tony could spend hours renaming everything science has already settled on, every dip and valley and rolling glide of toned muscle. He holds that angle, cum spurting onto Tony’s stomach and chest, gasping, head tossed back, the muscles of his still-slender neck a little corded, and Tony’s got to remember to put that collar on him first thing in the morning, first thing, because now he has to do this again, with the collar, _fuck_. 

Peter slumps forward a little, and Tony pulls him the rest of the way, closer, tight to Tony’s chest. They can shower, he has showers, they can shower and get clean later. Right now, Tony needs to wrap him up, tight. He’s all for Tony, in moments like this, just Tony’s. The rest of his world can fuck right off. Right now, he’s Tony’s. Peter’s brainless and fucked out, shaking just a little, and Tony loves it. He loves it so much he decides that, yeah, he’s fucking Peter just like this, overstimulated, fucking him until Tony gets his turn, too.

It’s a good plan. But first, a check in. “Green?” he asks Peter gruffly. There’s a chance Peter could say no, pick another color. There’s a first time for everything. He’s got vague plans to try for the yellow medal maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. He could spend all day fucking Peter until Peter finally tells him enough, finally find out how many times he can crank the engine before it won’t turn over for him. But not today. Today, today he thinks he’ll go get started on his sandcastle. After this. After he gets what he wants. He jiggles Peter and Peter groans a little.

“Mr. Stark,” mumbles the other man and, okay, yeah, that’s definitely mashing his monster button. Tony loves it, loves the way it reminds him of how they started and how far they’ve come, loves the America’s Fucking Sweetheart of it. He loves how it goes with him in his nice suits and Peter kneeling naked so effortlessly, like that’s all they are to each other, _the_ Mr. Stark and some first-name-only guy.

“Green or no?” he huffs, feeling a little impatient. He knows what he wants, he’s so ready, now, but he’s not skipping the important stuff, even on vacation. Good habits are so important.

“Green,” mumbles Peter, lifting his head to glare playfully up at Tony. “You knew that,” he accuses Tony. “You knew that. I’m literally still shaking from coming, you could have just-”

“Well, that consent was fucking sexy,” announces Tony, and then he flips them, shifting Peter until he’s on his knees, ass in the air, cheek pressed to the sheet. “You got yours,” he tells Peter, slapping the man on the ass because he can, he totally can, Peter _loves_ it. “Mine, now. Stay where I put you.”

He slides in, and it’s fucking blissful, better than the first sip of coffee, he’s going to start every day this way when they get back to reality. He didn’t think anything could be better than the first sip of coffee, but fuck, yes, this is better. Peter moans, and Tony smirks at himself in the mirror because, yeah, the kid’s hard again already, his dick a curve in sharp relief in the mirror, already painful looking. What an abject _slut._ It was probably the slap on the ass, too. Trouble’s a total pain princess, and damn if that doesn’t just do everything for Tony.

Peter pushes back and _who is the dom, here_? Tony slaps his ass and says, “Stay where I put you,” in his deepest voice, loving the shudder that goes through Peter. Loving the surrender that follows in its wake. “If I want to slide in and wait fifteen minutes to get soft, you’re going to let me, Trouble. Want to use you like a cock sheath, just keep me warm while I drink my coffee, eat a bagel, you’ll take it. You stay where I put you.” Peter nods, a little frantically, and Tony loves that, too. His sub’s so responsive, so very responsive, wants to do such a good job, it makes Tony’s job so easy. All he has to do is come up with the next new idea.

This moment’s new idea is motion. He grabs onto Peter’s hips with a rough grip- Trouble is an _absolute_ pain princess- and sets a brutal rhythm, aiming as much as possible for the sub’s prostate because he’s a total asshole and he knows it. Peter starts out already whining, eyes screwed shut, and that’s great, because it means Tony’s probably gonna get him to come twice to Tony’s once and three to one is an excellent ratio for this vacation. 

Pounding. Slamming. Pulverising. Three good words to describe what he’s doing to the man underneath him. Peter’s hands are fisting the sheets and he’s whimpering, sobbing, shifting back just that bare inch that lets Tony know he’s into it, he likes it. Of course he does, Peter is a fucking pain _princess_ , he loves it best when Tony’s just a little savage, just a little overwhelming. Well, a lot overwhelming right now, sue him for wanting Peter _wrecked_.

Tony shifts his hips to get just, just a bit deeper, and he’s rewarded instantly by the low, anguished moan from his sub, “M-mr. Stark,” gasped into the sheets. Fuck if that stutter isn’t the best thing in the world, right now.

“Yes, toy?” Tony grunts, savagely. “You gonna give me what I want, again, so soon?” What a “fucking slut for my dick, aren’t you?” But- “It’s not about you right now, we’re doing my turn, toy, so you come if you have to-” and that sob is delicious, he loves how Peter shatters just with words, just with the right words if Tony can find them- “-I don’t care, I’m taking what _I_ want, no more waiting.” 

Tony tilts his head to watch them in the mirror. He watches Peter take him, his eyes screwed tightly shut again, what is _with_ him and Pepper and their eyes-closed-shut routine in this room? Tony watches as Peter’s frame shakes with the force of each thrust, memorizing the way his spine arches and he pushes back, memorizes the way his mouth falls open to gasp and pant. He switches the angle, angling for deeper, _more_ and watches the expression twist on Peter’s face, watches the slick slide of his dick into that warm wet flesh, so willing, so welcoming. He gives a slap to that rounded, perfect ass, just, you know, appreciating it, and watches the sub’s whole frame shake and shudder in the ripples of reaction. 

Fuck is Peter reactive, he’s so fucking responsive, and Tony doesn’t have to be careful, Peter loves it when he’s not. He loves everything Tony wants to try, so fucking eager, so fucking trusting. Fuck. Tony can feel his balls gather up and, sure, okay, he was gonna let the sub come as many times as possible, string him out, but it really isn’t about Peter right now, is it? He got his turn. Tony watches the slide of his dick inside Peter, and grunts, because who knew? Who knew he just needed his own personal subby superhero, to feel like this, to feel this incredible?

Peter’s gasps have turned into sobs again, and Tony grits his teeth, his rhythm faltering because, okay, yes, he can wait just a minute, just a minute more, okay, because he knows that sound, too. He growls, “Pull yourself, c’mon, Trouble, give me a show, give me what I want,” which is fucking genius because the sobs turn briefly into a whine and that may be his favorite noise in the world, the way Peter will _whine_ for it when he’s safe and comfortable and completely out of his head. His own dick is throbbing with the need to come, it’s almost giving him a headache, how tight his jaw is clenched, but not much longer, not much, because Peter is wrapping a hand around himself and Tony knows every single twitch in that body right now, he gives the sub maybe three pulls. 

Tony’s wrong. It’s four.

Four pulls, and the kid is bucking forward, bucking back, sobbing, making just the best noises, but more importantly, looking fucking awesome in the mirror, looking so good that Tony’s done, they’re not hitting that three-to-one ratio. The sub is clenched so tight around him, so tight, shaking with his orgasm, shaking and moaning, microvibrations all along Tony’s dick. Tony groans, thrusting in, in, in, rapid, shuddering thrusts, and then the world slips away for a second as his focus narrows down to how fucking good Peter’s ass is, clenched around his cock.

Perfection. 

Even his mental voice is panting, shattered on the fucking feel of Peter’s silky smooth skin still squeezing him as he tells Peter, “Fuck, you are so- fucking _perfect_ Peter Parker- fucking _perfect.”_

Tony contemplates staying just like this, just like this until he’s soft and then hard again, but his knees are protesting, just a little, and what he really wants next is kissing, anyway. He slides out, flinching at the overwhelming sensations, and then collapses beside Peter, pulling the sticky sub on top of him, where their stickiness can mingle a bit before a shower.

Tony’s heart is still racing, _fuck_ , but he can feel Peter’s calming already, the kid’s refractory period is unfair. Peter nuzzles into his neck, gives little kisses there, and he pats Peter’s hip. “Good toy,” he declares after a deep breath. “So good. Gave me everything I wanted-” and more, things Tony didn’t even know to want- “did good.”

Peter whimpers, because he’s _perfect_ , Tony’s words do stuff to him. He’s so fucking responsive.

“Breakfast?” asks Tony, after another long few moments spent just holding his armful of perfection and catching his breath, calming his heart.

Peter chuckles, the tone laced with a little bit of disbelief, pulling a smirk to Tony’s own lips, and says, “Whatever you want, Mr. Stark.”

Damn straight. It’s his vacation, it’s his breakfast, it’s his sub, and so far, it’s shaping up to be his kind of day.

“Waffles,” declares Tony.

“Whatever you want, Mr. Stark,” repeats Peter.

Yeah. His kind of day. Perfect.


	6. Yellow Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: Subdrop, aftercare
> 
> Hiya, folks. Nobody panic. All of the rest of the chapters are half-written, but I wanted to get this one up, even though it's chronologically the last chapter of the Island story because I haven't posted anything in this AU in a very long time and I think we could all use a little aftercare right now. I hope you're all staying sane, enjoy!

It’s the day before they go home, thinks Peter dully, as he bites into a fresh mango at the outdoor bar. Pepper is soaking in the ocean with Mr. Stark, they’re both laughing and floating, with the ridiculous drinks Mr. Stark taught Peter to make for them on the deck of the raft they’re clinging to. They’ve been out there for awhile, just enjoying the ocean, their laughter drifting back over the beach to Peter. Peter eats his mango slowly and feels… weird.

The sun isn’t yet at mid-day, and Peter wonders if some of the feeling weird is just being tired. Last night he and Mr. Stark had camped out in the jungle room, playing hide-and-seek just after midnight, his heart thumping as Mr. Stark had chased him, both men climbing acrobatically between the different levels, enjoying the small dangers of leaping from platform to platform, sliding down poles, in the mostly-dark room. It had been fun, a memory Peter will never forget, will always hold in the awed part of his soul, but it had also meant that when they woke, he was missing several hours of sleep.

So maybe he’s just tired, that’s all. Maybe he just needs to go take advantage of one of the napping rooms. It’s too bright down here, anyway, he can feel a headache starting to pulse just behind his eyes.

Peter snags himself an energy bar and a frozen mango lassi and heads for the stairs, figuring it can’t hurt to try for a nap. And if it’s not tired, if it’s something else, well, he can figure that out when he’s better rested. Vacation is for relaxing, not stressing, and he’s still on vacation, today.

He climbs the stairs and tries to decide which room will be most out-of-the-way and also meet his needs best. He hasn’t spent much time in the Yellow Suite, with the sunken bed and the cushions everywhere, he realizes, after a quick kaleidoscope memory tour of all of the things he’s done and seen and enjoyed in the ten suites. Time to do that now, he thinks. Perfect time to get that done, before they head for home.

He slips into the room quietly, leaving the door open so that if- when- Mr. Stark and Pepper come investigating, it’ll be obvious where he is, easy to find him. The bed is down a short flight of stairs or a quick hop down the side wall, and when he slides on it, he’s surprised by how soft it is, how much it gives. It must be some kind of gel or foam, he thinks, giving an experimental bounce. Perfect for right now, perfect to sink in a little and feel cocooned. He feels so weird, so out of touch. The lassi is thick as he takes a sip, and he loves lassi, but it’s almost too sweet.

Peter nibbles on the bar and slowly sips the lassi, wondering what this strange stretched out feeling could be, where it could be coming from, how to get rid of it. He doesn’t like it. After more than two weeks of feeling safe and free in his own skin, it makes his skin feel thick, heavy. It’s quiet in the Yellow Suite, quiet and soft, everything is so soft here. He can understand why Pepper loves it for napping, the light is so gentle, and there’s something intimate and calming about the half-walls boxing in the bed. Peter stares up at the ceiling and feels tired, and a little overwhelmed, and wonders if he’s getting sick, if he’s having a reaction to something, if he should tell Pepper, activate KAREN, have a diagnostic run.

He loses track of time, in that weird not-sleeping, too-tired mood, but he can hear Pepper’s footsteps before the door creaks open, so he doesn’t startle as time snaps back into place. 

“Hey, Peter,” she calls gently, “You hungry for lunch?”

She spots him laying there and then says, slowly, “Oh. Peter, I’m going to go get Tony, okay?” Her eyes are soft and concerned and not at all surprised.

Peter nods and rolls over to his side, wrapping around one of the pillows, burrowing in a little.

He doesn’t listen for them on the stairs, but it’s no shock when he can hear them, anyway. “-think of anything you’ll need?” asks Pepper quietly, as they walk. 

“All his favorites, everything, empty the fridge,” says Mr. Stark decisively. “Give us awhile, then you can come up and join us?” His voice sounds a little uncertain.

“Yes, certainly, Mr. Stark,” teases Pepper gently. “Leave this part to me. You go concentrate on him.”

The door slides open and Peter doesn’t even lift his head, it feels too heavy, like the whole world, every mistake he’s ever made, is pressing him flat.

“Hey, Trouble,” says Mr. Stark, sliding down into the bed. He smells like the coconut shampoo in the downstairs shower-room and he’s wearing a pair of loose linen drawstring pants. “Drop’s got you bad, huh? Smart of you to find the comfiest room to cozy up in. I’m here, now.” He slips in next to Peter, pulls Peter’s head into his lap, and starts threading his fingers through Peter’s hair gently.

“Drop?” asks Peter, a little startled.

“Sub drop,” says Mr. Stark, like he’s reminding Peter of something Peter should know, like this was _scheduled, expected._ Like finding Peter in the Yellow Suite with dried tear tracks on his face and an inability to lift his head for a kiss of greeting is _normal_. “Wasn’t sure, I kept thinking it was going to hit you and then it didn’t, but it’s been a long vacation, perfect Peter Parker.”

Peter shakes his head. “This isn’t, I’ve dropped before, Tony, this isn’t that. I think I’m sick, maybe?” Except he doesn’t get sick, the super spider spit takes care of that. Something’s wrong, though, this is- he’s all _broken_. He feels broken, and heavy.

“Bet you a Nobel it is,” says Tony calmly, his voice gentle in a way Peter’s never heard it. “You’ve had little drops before, Peter. Little drops for little scenes. Mental and physical reaction to the small spikes in endorphins and adrenaline, perfectly normal, predictable, even with your extra abilities. But we’ve never played for _weeks,_ Peter, you’ve been yo-yoing for _weeks_ , now. When one didn’t hit earlier, I thought it would hold off until we got home, but now we know.”

“What do we know?” asks Peter plaintively, and he hates the neediness in his tone, hates that he can’t hide any of this, hates that he’s broken, right now, a broken toy.

“We know you’re amazing,” says Mr. Stark, brushing the hair off of his forehead. “We know you can go for weeks, my favorite toy, I can wind you up and keep you wound for _weeks_. And we know when your body is ready to be done, it finds you a comfy place to wait for me, so smart, Trouble.”

“Is weeks good?” asks Peter, and he hates that he asks it, hates that he’s showing off how insecure he is, how he needs to compare himself, always comparing himself.

“Weeks is amazing,” says Mr. Stark firmly. “If you dropped every other day all vacation, that would be good, too, that would be your normal, and I would bring you up here every other day and we’d work through it together every other day. Heck, I’d take a ratio of one day of play and two days of aftercare, for that one day of play, Trouble. Weeks is just spoiling me, which you should always do. You should always spoil me, perfect Peter Parker, just like this.” His hand continues to play with Peter’s hair and Peter slides his eyes shut.

“Here, talk to me,” says Mr. Stark suddenly. “Go ahead, rest, relax, I’ve got you. But let’s talk about this, so I have what I need to know how to help you through this.”

Peter rubs his cheek on Mr. Stark’s thigh. “Okay,” he says uncertainly.

“Does your body ache?” asks Mr. Stark, his voice curious, soft.

“It just feels, uh, heavy,” admits Peter. “Like it’s effort to move it.”

“Well, you don’t have to move at all,” declares Mr. Stark. “I like you right here.”

Peter nods.

“But you don’t hurt anywhere? Any bruising, anything like that? Anything that might need some extra attention?” Mr. Stark’s voice isn’t uncertain, he’s as confident in these questions as he is asking Peter about the effects of the latest modification to KAREN’s programming or the suit, and it helps, it helps to hear that sciencebros tone here in this weird place where Peter feels so... broken.

Peter responds, “No, sir. I think, I don’t feel sore anywhere. Just, I feel heavy.” He winces, because that’s such a stupid thing to say.

“Yeah, you remember gym class,” asks Mr. Stark. “Having to run a mile, climb a rope, that kind of thing? Just your muscles saying they’re well-used and tired, need a break. Easy to give it to them today, on the plane tomorrow, too. No need to go anywhere else.”

Peter remembers honesty and admits, “That sounds nice. I don’t, I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

“Yeah, I bet not. Looks like it hit hard, when it hit,” says Mr. Stark, and Peter can hear the smile in his voice. “How’re you feeling about me, in particular?”

“What?” asks Peter, raising his head to twist and look up at the other man in confusion.  
  
Mr. Stark looks back down at him with calm eyes, accepting, and tells him, “I’ve been playing pretty hard with you. It’s normal for my playtoys to have some, uh, wariness, that hits hard during the worst of the drop. It’s okay,” he reassures Peter, as Peter feels his heart sink and knows it shows on his face. “I don’t take it personally. Anymore. After a few, you realize it just comes with the territory.”

“That’s horrible,” Peter tells him, shocked. “That’s- Mr. Stark-”

“It comes with the territory,” repeats Mr. Stark, shaking his head. “We’re both big boys, here, we’re playing dangerous games. There’s some things that are just responses, Peter, they’re not horrible, they’re just things that happen when you mash some of the buttons on the controller.”

“Well, I don’t, I don’t think that about you,” says Peter mulishly. 

“That’s good,” says Mr. Stark, “But if you start, you can tell me. It just tells me where you’re at, Peter. It’s just a thing your chemistry is doing. I played with you pretty hard.”

Peter thinks about it. “Maybe, maybe it’s different for me than for other people, your other- your old side projects.”

“Everyone is different,” agrees Mr. Stark. “Everyone has their hang-ups.”

Peter tells him, “I’ll tell you, though.”

“Good,” praises Mr. Stark. “Good boy. If you tell me, I can help.”

There’s silence, then, and Peter can feel his body slowly curl around Mr. Stark’s warmth, inch by inch, limb by limb. 

“So you feel heavy, and sick,” says Mr. Stark conversationally. “And tired? Worn out?”

“Yeah,” sighs Peter. “And I have a headache.”

“And a headache,” adds Mr. Stark. “How about anxiety? Where’s that at?”

Peter considers it. “I don’t think it’s any worse than normal?” He thinks about his body, being in his body right now, and says, “The light outside was too bright. My lassi was too sweet.”

“Mm. Overstimulation,” agrees Mr. Stark. “The not-fun kind.”

The door creaks open, and Pepper enters with a tray and a wry smile for Peter. “Here. Get that blood sugar up, give your body a chance to regulate.”

“Best toy,” Mr. Stark informs her, his voice achingly fond. “Was wondering if he’d ever drop, and look how good he is at it. Came all the way up here, got cuddled up in the best room for it. How’d I get so lucky?”

“Thought that’s what was happening,” she says in a tone of satisfaction, passing down a box of truffles. “What did you guys get up to last night? You spent a whole day in the playroom and he didn’t drop like this afterwards.”

“Nah,” says Mr. Stark dismissively, waving a hand, putting the box to one side and gesturing for Pepper to put the tray on the bed beside him. “Nothing like that. We can check with Brucie-bear but my guess is, Peter, you’re not going to drop like this for the kinds of scenes I like, all mental games and some light impact. You’ve got too much going on with your super stuff for this to be strictly a physical drop, all the chemicals baselining in your brain.” He selects a grape and presses it to Peter’s lips. Peter opens and chews, the bright flavor bursting, not too much sweet, not too much sour. It’s soothing, actually. “If I had to guess, it’s the emotional side. We’re going home tomorrow. This has been great, wonderful, amazing, and we’re going home tomorrow.”

Peter sighs and nods his head against Mr. Stark’s thigh, cheek rasping against the fabric there. “I don’t want to leave,” he admits, voice choking. 

“Yeah,” says Mr. Stark, offering another grape. “We’ve been riding an endorphin high since just before we flew down,” he tells Pepper and she nods slowly. “But going back? That’s not thrilling anybody in this bed too much.”

“I want to go back,” disagrees Peter, before accepting another grape. “I do. I miss, I miss everything. I miss everyone, patrolling, the Avengers, the lab. But I don’t want to lose this, too.”

“Bingo,” says Tony, holding him tight for a second. “Crash down.” He mimes an airplane crashing with his hand, making a whistling noise with an explosion at the base of the arc. Peter winces, embarrassed.

“Well, that sounds healthy,” says Pepper calmly. Mr. Stark selects a blueberry this time, holding it up for Peter’s inspection before dropping it into his mouth. “No one wants to leave their _vacation_ , even if it is good to think about going home and getting back into routine.”

“Yeah, it hasn’t been much of a vacation, he’s been working hard the whole time, just, in a different way,” Tony tells her, digging through the tray. “I’ve been pushing a lot of buttons, designing new buttons and installing them. Peter, we’ve done so much in the past few weeks, it’s okay to crash completely and entirely and need some care for a day or two. Or three,” he adds. “Or four, if you need it. Pepper can work meetings around me and you and the couch.” Peter smiles at that mental image.

Pepper nods willingly. “I will,” she tells him. “You’ve been so good, Peter.”

Peter shrugs. Mr. Stark selects a muffin from the tray and breaks it into pieces, passing the first one to Peter.

“No, I mean it,” she presses. “This has been my favorite vacation so far. Tony hasn’t once driven me nuts. He’s awful when he gets bored. I don’t think he’s been bored one second since the airplane, Peter. And that means I’ve been able to unwind the way _I_ want to unwind.”

“She means trashy romance novels and long baths,” Mr. Stark tells Peter, sliding him some orange juice. 

“I absolutely mean trashy romance novels and long baths,” Pepper confirms. “And sitting still, doing nothing.”

Mr. Stark shudders in mock horror. Peter smiles, but then he feels it twist, to his horror, and he gasps against the sudden tears that spring to his eyes. What is _wrong_ with him?

“Hey, hey, hey,” soothes Mr. Stark, sliding down the bed, wrapping Peter up in his arms, throwing a leg over Peter’s leg, surrounding him. Pepper slips down on Peter’s other side, a warm presence behind him, one hand pressed to his back.

“I don’t-” manages Peter before his throat closes. He tries again, “I don’t know what’s-”

“Shh,” says Mr. Stark. “Shh. It’s just drop, it’s just the crash. We’ve both been riding high the past two weeks, it’s just the crash, Trouble.”

“I don’t, I feel so-” mumbles Peter, exasperated at himself. “I feel like, _disconnected_ from you. You’re _right_ _here_ , why does it feel like I’m all alone?”

“Drop,” says Mr. Stark calmly, kissing his forehead, his lips. “This is all drop. I’m right here. You’re my perfect Peter Parker, the only one in the world.” He takes a deep breath and then says, “Hand-crafted, my favorite thing, you know that, right?”

Peter nods. He does know that. He just, he just feels so weird.

“I’m such a monster,” Mr. Stark murmurs, and Peter’s eyes fly open. Mr. Stark is smiling wryly at him. “Play and play for days, do everything I want, and then you have to pay the price,” he tells Peter. “I hate that. Wish it worked the other way around.”

Peter shakes his head. “That’s, that’s the opposite of a monster, Tony,” he says quietly. “Monsters don’t care about their toys.”

“I care about you so much,” Tony says seriously, ducking his head to catch Peter’s gaze with his dark eyes. “I care about you too much.”

Peter stills a little, eyes caught by the emotion in Tony’s eyes. “Too much?” he repeats faintly, wondering, wondering if-

“Too much,” agrees Tony slowly, nodding slightly. Pepper’s breathing catches behind them and she holds herself motionless. Tony slides a hand up to Peter’s cheek and says, very slowly, “Perfect Peter Parker, trouble-mine. Too much.”

“Too much,” repeats Peter again, like he can’t help it, because, is Tony, is he saying- Peter’s head whirls, his stomach explodes into butterflies.

“Yeah, Trouble,” says Tony, a smile twitching his serious lips. “Gonna make me say it, huh?”

Peter shakes his head. No, he doesn’t need the words, he, he can guess. It’s enough that it’s too much, that’s enough. That’s all he needs.

“I love you, Peter Parker,” says Tony softly, shaking the foundations of the bed and enflaming the world with that almost-whisper, with the burning light in his eyes.. “My perfect Peter Parker.”

Peter’s jaw drops a little, lips parted, and he says, “T-tony,” like an _idiot_.

“Yes, Trouble?” asks Tony, raising an eyebrow, a little light of teasing entering his eyes.

“Tony, I love you so much, _too_ much,” Peter tells him in a rush. “I didn’t- I didn’t want to, to make you uncomfortable or-” Tony interrupts the flow of his words with a chuckle and a sweet, fiery kiss. An in-love kiss, thinks Peter. An I-love-you-too-much kiss. With _Tony_ _Stark_.

“Yeah, about the time we hit four in forty I figured you were stupid in love with me,” Tony teases him when they part. “Such a slut, but you’re- you give me so much, all the time, so much. You don’t hold anything back, never expect- well. Such a gift. Perfect. I figured it had to be love. You brought me _tiramisu_ , Peter Parker.”

Peter is blushing and wiggling in his arms when Pepper sighs happily and says, the smile evident in her voice, “This is the best trashy romance novel that has ever played out in front of me and I was _there_ when Michael proposed to Angelica. Could you two _be_ more adorable?”

“No,” says Tony, kissing Peter again. When he releases Peter to gasp, he says authoritatively, “We have reached max capacity on adorable for the season. We cannot have more, it would require a system restart and we just _took_ a two week vacation.”

“Two and a half,” corrects Pepper, rubbing a hand down Peter’s back. “Congratulations,” she tells them, “On making the good and healthy decision to talk about your feelings.”

Peter smiles as Tony groans, making a pained face. “You’re the worst,” Tony grumbles.

“Thousands of dollars of therapy, so glad I could be here to witness the jackpot,” she teases him. “Knew if I just kept yanking on that lever, you’d pay out eventually.”

“I am going to make alfredo,” announces Tony and Peter’s heart skips a beat because Tony’s alfredo is _amazing,_ it’s the only thing he really _makes_ and it’s so good. It’s Peter’s favorite, and Tony knows that, which means he’s making it _for_ _Peter_.

“Good plan,” agrees Pepper, patting Peter on the back. “Nice, nutrient rich carb-loaded meal. Plus, it’s Peter’s favorite. He deserves some spoiling.”

“He absolutely does,” agrees Tony, kissing Peter before pulling him tighter, wrapping him up even more securely. “Best toy.”

Peter still feels heavy, still feels tired. He still feels _weird_. But he can also feel some of it lift, a little energy making his heavy limbs feel lighter, and he doesn’t feel as adrift, with _I love you, Peter Parker_ echoing in his ears, anchoring him back to Tony. It’s hard to feel unlovable and alone when those words are on endless repeat, lifting him up. Tony’s arms are around him tightly, and Pepper is rubbing his back, and there’s alfredo in his future.

He settles in, rubbing his cheek against Tony’s bare chest, and blows out a breath.

“But first, this,” declares Tony. “First, let’s just do nothing but this.”

“Good plan,” agrees Pepper, rustling her head against the pillow, resting her hand on Peter’s waist just below Tony’s arm.

“Best toy,” repeats Tony, kissing the top of Peter’s head. “Gonna help you feel better, get through this.”

“Already did,” huffs Peter, smiling where no one can see him.

“Yeah, not done yet, Trouble,” grumbles Tony. “Stay where I put you.”

Peter nods and stays, right where Tony put him.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, a bunch of stuff for this Island is half-written, but I've got some more plotty-things going on that are dragging me forward. I'll come back and post chapters and play around at some vague later date, but I want to keep going with these characters and the plotty things are dragging me off the Island. I must go where they pull me, but I'll be back to play around and finish up the other chapters on another day!

**Author's Note:**

> Come meet me in the comment section with a list of your demands (I seriously have a list of all the plotbunnies people have farmed off to me so because I love new ideas), but keep it cool with the critiquing, guys, I'm new. Compliment sandwiches WORK.


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